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3/11/2016 3:10:40 PM

Terry Robinson
Posts: 49

The bitumen sockets of a fox's skull gape out across an open field,
testament to open-casketed interment.

Starlings pulse ephemeral iredescence into cascades of
limitless water falls.

And Autumn's weakened sun throws shapeless shadows across a ruined tree;
hunched over its grey bark, bearing witness to countless years of inflicted torture.
The cinching together of its narrow waisted branches scream,
against the weight of delinquent crows.

And the redundant pose of a one-legged king leans
into nonexistent wind, pointing malnutritioned
sticks accusingly at the ignoble intent of winged demons.
An impertinent robin perched on his dilapidated crown,
sounds the nocturnal 'last call' to all who are still abroad.

A blanket of evening mist enshrouds his kingdom
from vespertine raiders and sharp-witted foxes.

The King has put his night cap on, leaving stalkers to rule
the silver veils and black-tarred veins.
Patient ears , listening to the land breathe,
reveal a midnight snack and a mothers heartbreak.

Sly look meets fertive glance across hard won boundary,
pensive new-comers tasting trees for scent of ownership.

The nights smudged daub drags itself into early morning's coloured
calls between the feathered demons of the worm-fertile field,
and the redundant mists finish a hard nights shift.
The lost soul of the night easily replaced by nature's newest gift.

And the King, woken from his slumber,
stands sentinel over his dominion once more

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