The black and forth fledgling
Since birth, buried deep in the village,
coffin cold, leaking little joy for this boy
returning home to his coal fire night;
a room half searing, half freezing,
half fearing that worse is to come,
slammed inside every dour day,
that always wore the coldness of a sadness;
the lurking shadow of an inexplicable sadness.
Outside of the adult walls the pals
wove little comfort from kicking the
dark around the corners of night, before
ricocheting from the implosion of daring do,
that sent them homeward flaring from
the sneer of night, its atavism in fright,
long shrouded hand upon their shoulders.
Stranded on a blind dilemma; that
to leave the cold of the indoor outer-hearth,
was to enter the cold-hearted night, that
bit blue every clinging finger, and bid
ne’er point to the dream of a destination,
perchanced in this their destitution;
blanking out the hope for a brighter future.
Ne’er bid even the chink of a suggestion
to dare be silvered around a feral cloud
running the haunting moon.
All crescent moons bereft of my wish I wish havedropped behind the hill, dead above the docks;
and as the cinders fall in the grate,
the kettle lisps goodnight
up the stairway to heaven.
And the boy?
Well, he is away to his bed,
as weary as the day is long,
as far away now, let it be said,
each day is, has had ever been,
and never would be again.