I
The Gathering Throng
From assumptions: the day breaks and eyes open, mouths close
Reversing the lay of the land; the cold and driven fuse
That still pops the seedbuds
With still bared backs.
From the calling: more breathing, sun-spired, pulling hair from their eyes
And dirt from the ground; the pulled water
Trenched from the rock and turning limestone
That crackles with condensation.
From the berth: the sun dips, hallowing; and behind the dull block
The Hangman, with a sudden gasp
Of cold dry air and Mistletoe
Breaks open the knots and begs the crowd to sing.
From a song: more singing, shafting the light from their eyes
And taking the wind from the shutters
That level the ledge; the failing signs
Linger still as the great beast enters the arena
II
The Great Beast
In this turning of the day
The Blownsteed pulls it’s rough edges about it’s hanks,
And strains the ropes beneath it’s jaw
To wait the calling of the wild air.
In the passing of a horsebreath
The Burstnag held the stock between its teeth
And tears at the rough of the mane
In the wooden slopes above.
In the sloping of it’s neck
The Browniron moves its shoulders beneath the stand
And gathers the moss around it’s hooves
By the edge of the shuttle.
In the bursting of an artery
The Burnbrow turns a giant head to the gathering sky
And the oak and chestnut of the tripod and noose
Rub against the arch of its back.
In the clouding of the air
The Blightmare gives last breath to the tinder beside the edges
And pulls the timber across the field
With Christ’s first howling.
