Thursday, 5 April 2012

Loch Pitulish

Dawn is in the snow, pinking the fells.
A tentative sun-god will seduce the morn
by gentle means, not command.

Tenderness is a medium for saying love.
When clouds roll in we turn to it
as salvation from the cold.

Dawn sees the jeopardy of this,
a grey that blankets all its charms
and cuckolds, offering nightwithinday.

Then begins the cool hypnosis,
the undead flurry, in which cruel things
are abroad, blizzardcharmers
offering rest to stranded souls,
nightmares on the fells.

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