The black clouds drag like threadbare cloth
frayed upon the night’s washboard sky,
stained by the brew of a witch’s broth
and the ancient crone’s milk-moon eye.
Crook-fingered oak trees stir the froth
and work the rags as hoarse winds sigh,
shaking, incensed, becoming wroth
as clouds unravel in the dye.
Is it the soft shore
to the sea of dreams?
Is it the linen moor
of seams and what seems?
Tis a nightly nest
from whose feathers rise,
the fledglings flying best
with unseeing eyes.
Soft brushstroke of cloud
across the moon, washing out
its lunatic gaze.
cradle the cold, staring skull;
an angelic Wake.
Glowing scales aloft
and out from the dragon’s eye
a watchful silence.
In the lightening East the sun rises
and roseate blushes the virgin bride,
Dawn peering past all groom guile and guises
until there is no shadow he may hide.
Her bridal veil is fog, and yet
she sees clearly in the new day’s light,
his black tux a shade she cannot forget,
nor forgive the thrills of his bachelor night.
The veil of fog lifts from the bride,
her heated glare beneath waxing wild
with conjecture which she cannot abide
until the twilight comes, reconciled.
Then the proposal once more is given
and plans made for the morning rites
as light and shadow are ever riven—
never quite finished with their fights.