when I tried it on my own

everything was perfect:

the moon rose on cue

sparkled promisingly around each shadowy corner

the nettles and trip hazards on the ground

did not escape my surveillance

the next day the moon is an hour late

the path is much darker and the woods are too busy

with furtive attendants of illicit fires and concerts

we haunt them with our quiet walking

they mistake us for a family who after a row

are no longer speaking

we are meant to maintain our silence throughout

but I loudly yell ‘roots’ each time I nearly stumble

worried about people falling

into the water

someone gets ill half way through

just about makes it back to the clearing

still, we are treated to a full menu 

of night sounds

owls in the cherry trees 

an uproarious duck fight

mystery rustlings and crickets

and always the road in the distance