Lines Written by Moonlight at Whitby Abbey

Within the shadows and madness of Night,
Where each whisper floats upon moon-silver
And soft voices breathe upon me like ice,
I wait impatient for Her haunted eyes,
For Her look of poetry without words
That speaks to me Keatsian without verse,
Without living warmth, touched by the cold hand
Of Death, sick with suicide-whisperings
Lingering on each disembodied breath,
Listening deeply I hear no sweeter mystery

And thus I breathe in each poisonous thought,
Each sugary strand of silent silver,
Ice-mists of cold enchantment, frosted moon-glow,
Wreathed upon my throat like an amulet
Of whispering witch-crystal, awakening
My eyes to the night-creatures of moonlight:
The skeletal-fingered bat, slithering
Things of opal serpent-scale, eyes of white,
And the silent shadows of the night-wolf,
Dripping living rubies for the blood is the life

And yet, as I trace each silent shadow,
Each deathless whisper of cold persuasion,
Floating on each silver-slithering beam
Shimmering with dreams of waking illusion,
I am consumed by Her frozen witch-flames,
Consumed by moonlight, each creature of Night—
And as I absorb Her deathly light, I too
Feel myself absorbed,—changed—metamorphosed
By Her all-intoxicating madness,
Beloved to all that is shadowful and strange

My eyes at once embrace this change, alive
Yet unalive, living yet death-dreaming,
Moon-changed until ice-stones become my eyes,
Yorkshire-frosted like ghost quartz, crystalized,
Capturing the death-sparkle of black moonstone—
Raven-feather black, corpse-black, a black ice
Consuming my flesh like witches’ frostbite:
The creeping Night inspiring death to all life,
Until only a beam of cold moonlight
Tracing the traceries of Gothic stone remains alive

And yet it does not live, it does not breathe,
It has no eyes and thus it does not see—
But something exists, something watches me,
A pale ghost-light, a shadow lingering,
Capturing the cold night-glow of moonlight,
The frosts of midnight, dark ephemeral
Fleeting as Night’s transience immortal:
Yes, It is the night eternal, the darkness,
It is the spirit of night-existence
Watching without eyes Its children of the night

As It watches, I feel Its cold gaze,
I feel Its seduction and I again change:
My eyes, still silvered, materialize,
Appear before me like eyes of corpse-light,
A self-reflection of the demon-self,
The face behind the glass, pale and grave-cold,
Captured as magic-lantern necromancy,
Sapphire-flames of the plague-dead, the death-fires,
Dancing as phantasmagoria ghost scenes
Blending two phantasies of one reality

These ghastly eyes, moon-spun with gossamer
Thread of glowing decay, are my very own,
And yet, not my own, too pale, much too cold
As if plucked by the skeletal fingers
Of Death, ripped and torn out like vile jellies
Of living sapphire, living emerald,
Taken from the light and given to Night—
She, Her, It, the Darkness, the true Night Spirit,
Possessing my once warm and living eyes
Within a single beam of haunted moonlight

Then, from a passing shadow of night-mist,
Glistening wet like vitreous black opal,
Fleeting by upon a floating ghost-cloud
Carrying each color of pestilence,
There came a change: within the imprisoned
Beam of moonlight, and around those ghastly,
Still-watching eyes, there appeared a strange face,
Yet familiar as it took shape in the mists,
As if gazing into polished moon-glass
And finding the gaze of my own self-eclipse

The incessant, never-ending windchill
Of the North Sea’s ever-deepening cold,
Gathering its breath for eternities,
Where even Death exists with frost in its bones,
Was nothing to the ice I felt when that face
Materialized, for I knew it was mine,
Like those ghastly eyes, ever watching me—
And yet, still anguishing with self-regret,
I felt a cold peace pierce my still-living heart
And I closed my eyes to this beautiful night-world

I open my eyes and find the night changed:
No longer do I see those ghastly eyes
Watching me in that haunted beam of moonlight,
Nor that face,—that face—a self-reflection
Of all the calms and comforts of the grave­—
No, I see myself now captured within
A moon-shadow, colder than its beams of light,
Between two Gothic arches of intricate
Stone-craft, and beneath the many-petalled rose,
Lying still in the silent darkness, my eyes closed

I have now self-possessed that hideous thing
Imprisoned in that most singular beam—
But, as I examine each familiar
Feature, I realize a beautiful truth:
My flesh is not grave-cold, nor touched by decay,
But instead glows otherworldly glacé,
Ethereal silver, a cold eternity
Touched by Night’s incurable moon-cancer,
Eating away each living impurity
Until Death has left its pale immortality

As I look with new eyes, in macabre
Curiosity, I realize a new change:
The night-creatures exist in a new light,
Living in harmony as any life—
The bat, no longer skeletal-fingered,
Caresses the midnight-air with leathered
Softness, and the opal-scale slithering
Of the serpent now glistens amethystine,
Crescents noctilucent, emerald-rich,
And vivid eyes of azurean argent

The night-wolf, most beloved of all, dissolves
Into ghosts of my beloved dogs lost:
I see my chocolate Blue watching me
With his sublime eyes of otherworldly fire,
Joyous, amber-like, wild as volcanian light—
I remember these eyes, always and ever,
For once they closed, and closed forever,
Holding him in my arms as he died,
They would come to haunt my each and every night—
But now they live again, with all joy of living light

And my droopy-eared hound, Anna, freckled
With patches of cream and soft brown, cow-like,
Whom I lost while I wandered heart-broken
At Boatswain’s tomb in honor of my Blue,
Thus missing my chance at one last good-bye,
Now greets me again with her same languid
Yet ever-loveable curiosity—
And thus Night reveals another secret:
The silent shadows, ever watching me,
Have been my faithful friends, ever waiting for me

Within the shadows of Night, I exist
Only as a haunted beam of moonlight,
For the shadows are no longer silent,
And each whisper sings within me a sleep-
Persuading melody—but I cannot sleep,
I cannot die, nevermore to close my eyes
Upon all that is shadowful and strange,
For to Her there is no death, there is no change,
And no more each night do I listen deeply,
For I now hear Her, and I hear no sweeter mystery.

The illustration beautifully incorporates actual photographs of Clay’s beloved dogs. Blue, the chocolate lab, and Anna, the basset hound, are both poised next to an image of Boatswain’s Monument, the tomb of Lord Byron’s own beloved dog. Anna died on the very day Clay visited the tomb at Newstead Abbey in October 2018, just days before travelling to Whitby and beginning the poem, which is why it was important to include in the illustration.

“Lines Written by Moonlight at Whitby Abbey” was first published in Influence of the Moon (2019). The poem was nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and Rhysling Award.