Above the gently flowing river
the moon, seeping through the branches
of a long-standing kōwhai, seeks to beam
its slow light upon the forest floor
And poor crickets cry in number, for
fear they will not mate before this season ends
They chorus and harmonise, outdoing
the reassuring wind's flutter through leaves
About the moon, a cloud covers its pristine beauty
weakening all shallow puddle reflections and
stretching an ominous stain past the sky
and downward into glimmer
Moon, knowing its time hath ended
peeks out once more and dives into the river
as it gets smothered, it will whisper out
its final and last, "goodnight"