The Watcher

Watcher ... he wandered the upper moorland mists - the highest fells of Scottish countryside - wrapped in robes of wan, wispy light … aglow like the full of the moon, and aback a white Arabian stallion … he commanded the brume and twilight shivers, and could cleave sunlight with his sword, turning noon to midnight in a swipe - daubing the bluffs with dreamy fog … THAT, tales say, was the essence of enchantment, transforming the deepest darkness to a glistening, pearly wonderland, where starlight suffused every thing and everyONE, and the grandest of dreams were realized, by simply breathing that glimmering haze - filling your being with a confidence and care, immeasurable, and drowning your spirit in joy and contentment - waves of euphoria permeating your marrow, until nothing mattered but that light ... not even the realization that your mortality was at hand, and your soul was now happily, horridly ... His. Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, August 14, 2020; rewrote August 29, 2022