Tawnymoor – a poem

by Michael John Grist.

Make the feet for children’s shoes,

Down the alley, back from hell,

This whole town is made of iron

Witnesses shall turn to steam

Their Pockets filled with earth.

•

Grub the mantles, merrymen!

Seize the steam and come to me,

Here the zephyr rings on steel,

the judge becomes a narwhal’s spike

fill it with his blood.

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•

Ride the ocean, rising high,

Half a mountain in the dell,

Cut them from the tailor’s cloth,

Bind them with the love they wrought,

Drop them in a copper vat and tan their skins to hide.

•

Oh you come now, Tawnymoor,

With your bands of clasped gold,

Wrap my limbs in silken bonds,

Cut the heart from my chest,

And feed it to your dog.

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DARK FICTION

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