an undertone


The braying of an injured pack
    Howl outside. Their wailings whistle
Long shrieks like banshees screaming.
    Bone chilling shrill, their calls 
Now spilling from my frozen fireplace.
The halls, sheets slick like sleet
    Fleeting. Whispers rounding corners 
Sound. Yet, words escape my ears.
    Would tongues writhing with wound 
Jest - the vesper bells recalling lest
I go unfound? Were you there from springtime
    Falling, as like a hallow awing cawed 
Me, from first eyes flit, stalling there then fluttered 
    Past, like the windy boons of all
Gales gnawing as truculent things gone
    Sailing ever paling when once held so steadfast?

© Sarah Gosa, 2015

Painting:  “Dancing Fairies,” by August Malmstrom (1829-1901)