Walpurgisnacht
There is a victory, written in the rotating of stars,
A victory of Spring at the death gasp of Winter’s jaws;
Yet as black toffee ice trickles from the black hills,
Like moonlit blood on the teeth of the land,
Clouds and demon rain shape elemental claws,
Ground mist and cemetery gas in swirling nebula,
Trespass upon the living world one last defiant time.
For the ancient dead can dance beyond forest barricades,
Waltzes of pagan discord, gnarling bones in gruesome poses,
And the witches, drunk and naked, arouse talon orgasms,
Impotently curse Beltaine’s advance and de rigueur hibernation,
They damn the virgin swell of the buds of new red roses
That will surely arise from their flesh made dust
Where lips, ripe with the blood of sacrifice, kiss the seething earth.
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