Borrowed voice

The picture of a lone black wolf
at the edge of a rocky cliff
neck stretched, eyes closed,
looking up at a spotless moon,
an image familiar from paintings,
or stories regaled by elder siblings
trying to spook our naive spirits.
But it is an incomplete visual,
for there is no voice, except
the vain attempt of a brother.

Listen to the leafless trees
on a windy winter night
as the rain pecks at your window.

Listen to the painful howl
of the wind, as it tears through
the branches of those sleeping trees.

It doesn't shatter the glass
but you can not drown it out.
It is a ghostly, incessant sound
that will not let you sleep or dream.
But, I know now what they mean
when they say that the "wind howls".

So may be it is the wind,
on a full moon winter's night,
that howls, and not the wolf,
for who has heard the lone black wolf
at the edge of a rocky cliff,
neck stretched, eyes closed,
looking up at a spotless moon?

Black sky

Is it coincidence that when
the evening bleeds pink orange
you look up and twirl a bit
to absorb the ephemeral twilight,
that it's as if the sky has chickenpox,
except you look closely and see
it's not chicken but crows,
of course, then your brain reminds you
that chicken don't fly high, so now
you can confirm your worst fears,
it is after all Halloween,
and hordes of black winged devils
fill every inch of your sight,
they act like they don't know your whereabouts
but oh how clever they are,
for when you're out pretending to be a wily witch,
with the black cone hat and made up kohl eyes,
unaware of the dark souls you have offended
with your innocent mockery and fake broom,
they are watching and they will come after you
leading their masters, witches on brooms,
through the pox and pus-filled horizon.

Of course it may just be that
the annual winter migration of crows
coincides with the day of death,
but the twisted mind condemns them,
mourners in disguise,
waiting for the opportune moment
to swoop down on your head.

Light bait

Like twinkling patterns of light
on a tree on Christmas eve
spreading joy to passersby
as they fly from branch to leaf.

Their mates slow on ground
lead down a winding road
with an equally bright glow
wait for him to get on board.

Babies crawl and clamber
their first steps touch sand
toward the glimmering ocean
this may be their last on land.

Attracting life from earth, sea and sky
She beckons all to the changing tide.



Written on 2nd August, 2009.