Luna in the Garden by Allan Muir

In the distance the cry of the wolf was heard.  All my fears came rushing to the surface, the race memories still not subdued.  Civilisation, versus Ancient Man, the call of the wild from within.

Reclining amongst the trees I watched as She moved through the night with
ease, unobstructed by leaf or tree, flowing through the darkness as if true
existence were denied her.  I could feel her fatal charm exerting its pull
on me, much as she would draw the oceans into a chaotic dance of death,
throwing themselves against the shoreline until her fury had been spent. How
quickly She fled across the sky as if being chased by the sun, fearing the
lunar eclipse which would deprive her of her light, her power, her very
being.

She was creeping over flowers without care, reflections of her face
splintered by falling leaves, light broken into moving shadows.  I was held
motionless as she passed over me, scared to move lest I should be betrayed.  
Precious moments passed in an eternity, stealing my breath and leaving me
confused.  I could lose my reason in this garden.

Was that sound the wind?  Or did she whisper?

Nothing was immune to the magic of her gaze save the twilight world of
creeping shadows, one moment giving sanctuary, the next running, full of
trickery, to shelter from the light.  Deceived by the movement, I glimpsed a
feeling of natural time, passing, oblivious to the many rituals enacted in
harmony, although enriched by their existence.

Again the howl of the wolf tainted the magic, as though jealous of the
moment, wishing to corrupt it.  She was not moved by this, but accepted in
her decadence, that haunting cry to be an act of homage.

Echoes of her past were embroidered in the air, filling my senses with
stories of time, tales of the forging of the universe.  She ran amok through
the folly of inherited wisdom, laid me bare with no shelter in which to
hide, except perhaps Bedlam, the abode of the lunatic.

Mercy for the moonchild!  The thought came unbidden, her light caressed my
naked features.  She laid her gentle kiss upon my upturned face.  I would
not be harmed.  I was part of nature.  I had a right, nay, a duty to be
there.  A witness to her reality.

The flick of the hawks tail heralds her downward path, the zenith having
been reached and surpassed.  The dance has been performed, the ceremonies
honoured.  She must leave now, the shadows dissolving as her influence
wanes, darkness returning.  Chaos abates as her attention is turned toward
the coming dawn.  As she reclined on the distant horizon, I could feel her
love bid me good luck for the coming new day.

I was left with a feeling of angst-ridden grief, a sadness which solitude
nurtures into helplessness.  I cried out.  A long sonorous howl.  Again
mankinds past welled up inside me, begging for release.  I called to her
once more.  I can still hear the echo of my mournful cry, or was it the
wolf?  Did he feel the same as I

The end.