Into the sideline

Rough weather outside the walls, the Wild Hunt charges

by full tilt in a menacing errand of gloom and doom.

It's the dagger, dripping of gelid venom, that cuts out

the last stubborn remains of puerile innocence, which

in other respects would survive the impugning affront

of conqueror worm and the entropy of remembrance.

The bark torn by invisible gnashing teeth, leaves swept

across sepulchral meadows, giddy boughs dancing to the

howling chimes of rusted derelicts; nature's labour pains

masked as an overwrought tirade.

The vigilant heron perches among the limber reed -

the redoubtable pivot in the whirlpool of tides.