King of the Field
The bitumen sockets of a fox's skull gape out across
an open field, testament to open-casketed interment.
Starlings pulse ephemeral iredescence in a cascade of
limitless water falls. Autumn's late sun throws shapeless
shadows across a ruined tree, hunched over, its grey-brown
bark witness to countless years of inflicted torture.
And the cinching together of its narrow waisted branches
scream against the weight of delinquent crows.
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 safe
from vespertine raiders and sharp-witted foxes.
The King has put his night cap on and stalkers rule the silver
veils and black-tarred veins, listening to the land breathe.
Patient ears reveal a midnight snack and a mothers heartbreak,
as nature's competitors endure its contest. Sly look meets
fertive glance on hard won boundary, and pensive new -
comer tastes the trees for scent of ownership.
The nights smudged daub drags into early morning coloured
calls between the feathered demons of the worm-fertile field,
as the redundant mists finish a hard nights shift, and the lost soul
of the night is easily replaced by nature's gift. And the King, woken
from his slumber, stands careful watch over his dominion once more
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