In the Shadows

And now: the death of one more day

that peacocked glorious and bold

commanded all to heed unblinking

the screaming dull importance

of its waves of torrid blusters.

Yelling belly over breath, it

told you not to look away and

burnt its torch into your face and

dared you not to blow it out and

and begged you not to blow it out...

but in the shadows

you can breathe.

The faint and rankled musk

of all the dead and rotting things

it takes to make a forest float

ambles soft along the grass

investigates your sunken form

and spurls its tendrils round your head.

A twoop and honey twiddle

bare the evening blackbird throat

before a hop, a cock of head

and a wipe of wormy beak

chock out a twack, twick, twack

and into mellow dusk

it shuttles back.