Skinny McCaudle is called forth on Huddle
And in his bone hand his skedaddle fiddle
That used to put cloggers to their sweaty mettle
Cries out again
While the moon swoops out of the wind
And the wind swoons into the moon
Over Huddle Knob the Great Hunter straddles
And down the long westward a meteor hurtles
With a sound like red pokers plunged in a kettle
Of blackberry wine
While the moon floats royal alone
And the wind divides into forty minds
In our hamlet below we sleepers fuddle
And wallow in dreams of passionate riddle
As McCaudle’s hilltop diddle tweedle diddle
Thrills over the land
Deep in the moon thin wind
Skirls like a twisted violin
And calls us sleepers to scurry to the saddle
Of moon-fingered wind-worried Huddle
And dance until bony Skinny’s swift fiddle
Slides back in the ground
Till the beech leaves all heap in a restless mottle
And their bare branches thrash wit ha skeletal rattle
And we all stretch our limbs and yawn and settle
To sleep again
O yes there’s something beyond all this fiddle
That Time inches onward with it steady treadle
O lady there’s Something beyond all this fiddle –
We’ve seen its sign
Over huddle the moony wind
Shivers the silver Halloween