Friday, May 03, 2013

V. 2, #36: May 3, 2013

The cold wind slithers through the Johnson grass
and hisses as if every fibrous blade
had cut it deep. A traveler might pass
and wonder what rough beast lies in the glade

so wounded and ferocious. Overhead,
gray clouds turn lucent from the hidden moon
and cast on living skin the pall of dead
but walking things. Some ancient, mystic rune

engraved decades ago on Palmer's Rock--
which stands the meadow's sentinel, alone
--glows most unnaturally (as if to mock
an absent God), the shade of polished bone.

It's said at midnight haunting music plays
and spirits speak. But no one ever stays.


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