Cider. Thick, blood red in the tavern’s gloom
Pumps iron into my veins, as in the gloam’
I make my preparations for tonight,
When, armed with telescope and heavy gloves
Upon the haunted hills I will a-rove,
Praying they’ll come, and yet expecting naught.
Yokel-type voices raised in lyric song,
And yet, no melody or tune they sing,
But all the same, ’tis music to my ears,
As were the quacks of ducks upon the pond
And music also, yet without a sound,
The children in the park this afternoon,
As ’twixt their mothers and the lake they ran.
The drink is sweet as honey, tough as meat,
It stings my palate, leaves me brooding, mute.
The hills! This very night I will be there,
Perhaps there will be others there as well,
They’ll watch the skies while dawn approaches till
Their necks are cricked: perhaps with me they’ll share
A visitation, or a dream or two
In flying saucer country ’fore the dawn.
My glass stands empty; perh’ps just one more round?
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