the lost boy gambol

If you hear whooping and the banging of drums,

mind yourself and move along.

Do not peer into a clearing and stop to observe

the dance unfold, performed by baby-faced

boys in woodland skins with grins

that stretch too wide, orbiting

a central fire, marmalade flames roiling,

ash dotting the air like second stars.

They appear to be harmless boys in a jig, but blink

and they’re skeletons of men long past. Blink

and they’re pixies, living by belief. Blink and they’re

corporeal shadows, circling the blaze.

Blink again and they return to rosy-cheeked

youths, laughter blithe and raucous.

Turn away before the fox-dressed one catches you

staring, grabbing your hands to pull you in.

Fight against the urge to twirl to the heartbeat

of homemade drums and the whisper

of a playerless fife. Leave the clearing.

Grow up while you can.