Eight white stones

in a moonlit garden,

to carry her safe

across the bracken

on a gravel path

like a silvery ribbon

seven eels in the urge of water

a necklace in rhyme

to help her remember

a river to carry her

unheard laughter

to light about her

weary mirror

six candles for a king’s daughter

five sighs for a drooping head

a prayer to be whispered

a book to be read

four ghosts to gentle her bed

three owls in the dusk falling

what is that name

you hear them calling?

In the soft dark welling,

two tales to be telling,

one spell for sleeping,

one for kissing,

for leaving.