Woodwose The Hairy Man
meek, this hour
of a morning hue
shy cobweb gloss
in a frosted dew
he stood as shrubs
nay merged with trees
but matted hair
instead of leaves
though leaves a few
were woven in
a tempered bark-
like wear of skin
yet fleeting foul
and a peasant’s ploy
their rancid goad
to wheat destroy
in crop and fold
of furrowed fell
lest he be The
Mowing Devil
Copyright © Clive Culverhouse | Year Posted 2024
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