K. M. SCOBIE
2nd Lieut., R.G.A.
Lunae
HAVE you ridden alone in the country ever
By the dusty light of the harvest-moon?
—Cycled intent in a vain endeavour
To match your speed to your soul's quick tune
When there's never a sound to break the magic;
For the tyres' crisp whir on the powdered road
And the hoot of an owl in the distance, tragic,
Are pricking your heart with a fairy goad?
Then the hawthorn hedges, sweet dissembling,
Stealthily close on your path, till fear
Of their dense bulk looms; and your heartsick trembling
Shakes into stillness as you swing clear.
Then the high haw-hedges furious will bide,
Drawing back from the light of the moon:
But the black trees haste down the silver hillside.
You know in your heart that you laughed too soon.
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