Golden ghost-galleon wind bodied,
tossed on a silent sea of night between
the diamond studded crown and thorns.
Softer than cats toes and babies hair,
hanging over the quartered coverts, drawn
close to the laid hedge and briar.
A thurible smoke wisp of stealth, stalking,
stealing along the verge arteries; Angel of
death and frost, simple sinewed strength,
for you no gauntlet or knave’s jess.
Laughing moon-shadowed lantern,
hanging high in the broad chest of
the crook-boned rib cage eaves
of ancient ash, beating in the
broad chest of the yawning silence.
Four hearted spirit, seeing through amber
globed jellies; pools of secrets framed in a
gilded heart, clutching another tiny heart, its
beat still echoing your own.
You keep the hearts and blood, but spit the
spirit cocoons of bones and so many tiny,
empty chest cages; they lie on the charnel
floor, amongst scurrying squeaks, safest
next to the executioner; you turn again
to the moon-silvered clouds tossed sailing
in the ocean sky
to collect yet more hearts and more bones,
the ingredients of death and Angels to
leave yet more relic pellets; some will re-
grow and stick and knit and glue together,
seeking amongst the straw for hearts
and warmed blood and new spirits to house
in those tiny vaulted cages.