Where do the Moonchildren go when the day breaks?
They seem to fade, scamper, race, fly away
as soon as yellow light seeps through the ajar door of fire.
Their running feet can be heard, the winds and whines of air.
Scattering into the dark, their star eyes twinkling,
their silver flutes glittering in a flash.

Chant and stomp!
Wild before the night’s end the Moonchildren are.
One last hurrah! One finishing romp!
One final spout of magic in star gleams
and cricket screams. One closing rush of cold,
before they blink, flushing away; one more cup of darkness –
Just one more!
Not much time is left.

Twists twixt in blues, purples, greys, darks.
They, the spark of black that launches forward when peeks
out the sun, corkscrew upon their so wispy, tiny
slippers of dew. Moonchildren, never listening to any beam,
any solar song, any illumination
that may reap them of their gossip.
Their secrets.

Moonchildren,
here too slow, then too fast,
and then gone.
Where do the Moonchildren go?
Does it matter?
Now the Sunchildren come.

Though, my Moonchildren, my dearest soot butterflies and coal dusts;
my loveliest of sprites, gwyllon, and poltergeists,
every dusk that waxes nigh,
know that I am eager for day’s end.