Masquerade for an Irishman

I once, on Samhain Night dwelling on a folly,
with ponderings swollen of glum melancholy,
called out to a lone wolf Moon,
and She to Eris by way of croon,
a wan gal of reverie, yet still I remained wary.

Her moist merlot lips brushed against my ear,
and only when She was certain I would hear,
She whispered it to me first,
"this tonight we are cursed,"
Her words were knots, but Her eyes sincere.

With my hand in Hers, She uprooted my stay,
though my heels stood place, they swept away
to just outside the ivory gate
upon edge of Oceanus straight,
to confetti shores alive with sprightly soiree.

A shroud parade locked in permanent promenade
which with my fair Lady I faced unequally afraid,
fragrant of lavender and jasmine
and yet, a faint trail of other men,
and all by Her nothing else ever so unswayed.

In cloak and gown each spectre donned a mask,
the Lady skimmed steadily to an open wine cask,
amber nectar gilding the lily,
and I pledged of sweet cherry,
Her promises professed and relished and basked.

In this Old Malmok house on the isle of Bonaire
fleet footing fancied the glowworms on the air,
this rapture clothed my fear
as if so silent all these years,
thus a king and queen, Castelo Branco for a pair.

We danced upon the colors of Harvest grapes
and freely stepping through deciduous scapes
to each lullaby of seraphic prose
of each awed key of lovely Amos,
between soot and stars we waltzed to our agape.

As we spun around and round, She apprised
and so pleaded me with wistful viridian eyes
from deep behind Her ashen mask
to guess Her true name or ask,
and so I adopted the auguring wind to advise.

Within a sultry sense I whispered, "Pandemos,
the one for whom I desire, for whom I obsess,
the dove, the swan, the sparrow,
Gaelic voice of a Secret Rose,"
as tongue came to rest, She waited to confess.

Below the two branches we swayed as seagrass
beneath the banks of the Great Euphrates pass,
across the spectrum of Stone space
She removed the white veil from face
revealing that the omen breeze led me amassed.

Twin leaf sea dragons swam aside the isle's brooch
as the delicate, dreary Dawn's opaque sister awoke,
but atop Venus I was found aflame
in gardens of Twilight by no name,
and writer's ink spilled as Night made for approach.

She held illimitable dominion by ghastly caste,
perhaps borne of Babel or Ishtar all long past,
again She said as if rehearsed,
"this tonight we were cursed,"
and anew I slept of lament back home in Belfast.