The Shaman's shoes
There was a third death that dawn,grey and filled with gulls and crows,
calling all watery witnesses
just before Rain choose his weapon
to duel Bitter Wind.
Bright birches, charging wet ibis',
stare at him from weather's periphery,
a morning far from the cedar flags,
far from The Night Wars with its armed mongrels
and illegal squatters of river-less banks,
squeezing the poor like hot orange juice,
far into the desert.
The scorpion's faith is dying
under a pale crescent.
There is a migratory whisper
amongst the masses, waiting
for the air to shift,
for lakes and trees to talk
to kings and temporal eyes at dawn, waiting
through rain with birds that belong to all,
heralding thunder and hot tears.
The shaman found that his shoes
had already gone ahead
with the breaking of the sullen light
and the silent passing
of ominous mercury winds.
It was just another grey morning.
Poetry by Bob
Read 1600 times
Written on 2007-02-22 at 10:45
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