Restless dreams and cold moonbeams
Knock, Knock, Knock
Whose curious fingers knuckle the door?
No-one good, Jack, that's for sure.
This unwanted caller we should ignore,
and leave it bolted, locked, secure.
Is that the wind at the window? Perhaps it's just the rain.
Or could it be,
the fingers of a tree,
scraping at the pane?
I don't think so, Jack, so the curtains best remain,
until the dawn.
We'll let them tap in vain.
Scratch, Scratch, Scratch
What kind of creature, with such desire,
comes down a chimney towards a fire?
Something cold, Jack, something dire,
Lets stoke the flames a little higher.
Jack, Jack, Jack
Aren't these the words of gentle folk?
Whisper thin and finely spoke,
they drift through the air like smoke:
soft as clouds, Jack, yet bound to choke.
Night, Night, Night
It's time for bed and restless dreams,
of burning stars and cold moonbeams.
Of witches flying,
to ensnare you with their evil schemes...
Of rough hands lifting, up! up! they take.
Right to the heavens for heavens sake.
And then you're falling,
it's quite appalling,
but I'll catch you, Son, when you awake.
All the elements of this image are as usual my own photos: the moon was shot out my bathroom window earlier this month, the tree is from Bradgate Park, the witch is an amalgam of a statue, someones head, someone elses hair and my nieces witch outfit hat. The "fog" overlay is just a cloud photo. The cat is Inky - no effects on his eyes, just camera flash! If you're interested the wich lives here. :O)