Midnight hour
the chapel bells toll,
the crisp air containing
first whispers of winter.
As I sneak through the garden
I recoil at the noise
of brittle leaves crunching
beneath my bare feet.

My flimsy silk nightgown
leaves my blood freezing,
still I am compelled to answer
the alluring trill of your whistling,
your invitation to play,
a demand I am unable to refuse,
so I push my cold body and hurry
to avert your irascible moods.

You are half spirit, half man,
not to be toyed with,
your angelic features misleading
but might inadvertently be
the cause for these exquisite thrills.
As always your calling
instills in me a promise of
imminent danger and sin.

You smell like timber and mint
which is rather eccentric,
but then you are fae
sampling nature’s perfume
and your taste tends to be
of the exotic and sassy kind.

© november child
in response to Brenda Warren’s The Sunday Whirl Wordle #260
photo credit: Claudia Dea via flickr