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)