The Loneliness Of The Mountain Wolf

Lost in the country at night
No land : No landmark
Only outline of black
Solid hills, stretching
Further and beyond.

In this midnight hanging cliché
Every muse reclines tonight
In the barren growl at the border,
Feral fields release damaged fruit.
Dregs from wine bottle are empire
In this orchard of bitte/r/n lips.

All is amplified:
Billowed paper bag is plane thrust
Three owls sleep on my shoulders
Distanced shattering swims abreast;
Ballerinas of glass shards
Dance, cheek to cheek,
Torn muslin ripples
Through silvered streams.

An elderberry darkening
Veins collecting thunder,
Roped from my blizzard bed
To the wind lashed country lanes.

Dawn strikes a match
To set the pale moon ablaze,
Time briefly forgets me
In swoop of a redwing.

Hill summits beckon me
To kneel among the dead,
Eat rotten gifts from their chests
Flesh of berries, mouths and black holes.
Something religious in the sky skin
Parched sun tongue drinks the dew.

Framed
Until legs descend to
A cross road’ed articulated lorry
Ferrying furniture to suburbia.
At the station, scraped cow shit
From mudded shoes.

Drifting towards
Second-coming of Sleep,
Tannoy’ed driver whispered
“All hope is not lost.”



ERULGCT #24

Pic. Snowdonia