Monthly Archives: June 2012




A young hunter bends his bow

To string it

In the shadows

Cast by the setting moon

The autumn frost has finely dusted

The fletching of his arrows

And he hears a gentle whisper

Through the hills and glades

His father has shown him

And it calls to him,



For many moons it has been,

That upon these rocky ridges

And familiar hardened ground

I have bent

Or knelt to look

Yet never found

A single track or trace

Sign of her silent passage

She has slipped through

The gauze of night

And wriggled her way

Into my hazy drug dreams

Wrapped tight

In concertina wire

Bleeding through

That gap in time

Where I lay awake

Cold and sweating

Begging to sleep

Praying to die

Trudging across the fields

Of fresh cut stubble

Cutting my feet

With all my occupation;

Countless muddy trenches

I had dug around the miles

Of my Hell

Of hurts, loss and numb-swept joy

Stalking their dank loveliness

Knife in hand


Behind the plastic eyes

Of my gasmask

Content to breathe

The poisons of my existence.

Stirring the dusty cobwebs

That hang

From the worm riddled beams

And rotting rafters

Of a long abandoned

Tobacco barn

Is her whisper,


I hear her whisper,

With soft, warm lips that brush

My ear…

Of the gentle spring rains

That pop and roll

Off green oak leaves

That spread like hands

Making shadow puppets

Above the cool depths

Of my hemlock Sacristy

And I kneel

And pray

That if I could

Cut out

And bury

My own cold, dark heart

Under the ages

Of decaying leaf litter

That slumps its’ shoulders

Beneath these glacial scars


I wouldn’t have to hear

Its’ muted thumps

Its’ crooked, rusty

Hinges and valves

That croak

And whisper,



A raven ruffles its inky feathers

And croaks,

As a young student bends

Down to study

The artifact

He has uncovered

More closely

The ancient, glacial

Scarred hills and glades

Have yielded up

Yet another secret,

An age-blackened jewel

The bright autumn sun

Begins to reveal

Its’ dark artistry

Its’ curves and lines

Its’ somehow sinister design

The way it quivers

While in shadow

Oddly rolling upon his palm

Seeking those darker places

The way it seems to call to him



He can almost

Hear it whisper,



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