Coronach
Gather the crowberries for this windfeast.
Adorning our cheeks with ochre
we pile together
a throne of old rowan.
The staggards behind us;
warm breath at our napes.
We are as careful as a circle.
So a keening for the wild flightsman,
the hewer of stone, blood-iron hearted,
now dead as a distant star
that points the way of smoke, of fire.
But for a moment the wind resides.
Copyright © Leslie Philibert | Year Posted 2015
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment