The black and forth fledgling

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,

tomorrow forgone;

as far away now, let it be said,

each day is, has had ever been,

and never would be again.