The Shape-shifter

It is the wakefulness of the night,

Also the deep recess of slumber.
It jives in drunken revelry,
Reclines in a mood utterly sombre.

It gallops amidst endless chatter,
Then rests beneath sheets of silence.
Twinkles through conversing eyes,
As they rebel against the shyness.

It is in the tolling of the temple bell,
In the cry drowning the death knell.
Remains ensconced in that warm hug,
And in her cheeky, playful tug.

It's in the sounds of the sea,
And the gentle touch of breeze.
In the shade of flowing hair,
In her unwitting elbow squeeze.

It's the flower basking in the sun,
And in the grin behind the veil.
It is the heart’s most ardent wish,
But more often, its greatest ordeal.

Love, it be told, is a boggart.