Tuesday 3 June 2014

THE MATING GAME:


Golden neb to beak, obsidian feather to plume,

Fluffing rut, as shadowed tombstones greyly loom,

The mating game, danced to wolf´s wailing howls,

Serenaded by fanged jaws & bloody curdling jowls.

 

Beneath clawed talons, the silken worm slithers,

Above, leather-skinned bats, skit hither & thither,

Within the nest of crawl & old hawthorn dreams,

The raven sits warm, while plans new schemes.

 

Moon turned, egg cracked, watched by ebony eye,

Guardian of tombstones, insured for us who die,

Chick, slick-kissed, by blood-moon´s red spittle,

Born in sacred oath & to ancient Lore´s committal.

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