Underfoot Poetry

Black Moon

Season for walking
out into white frost
under the black moon.

Feeling the grass bend,
the cold enfold flesh,
the dark draw closer.

Scenting the wet
earth, lying fallow:
ice has its own smell.

Tasting night on the
tongue, cobwebby, thin,
and the mouth’s own heat.

Watching the breath steam,
cloudy, abundant,
twining with old leaves.

Hearing the silence
staking its own claim.
Then – the keen owl cry

sadly to fierce stars
as once the wolves cried,
walking here also.


Daylight Fox

We watch her circle the house, crouched low to the ground.
Her hollow flanks flutter, in out, in out, and her fur,
black-tipped, as if charred, shivers with them.

She has sensed the warmth of breath, the throb
of a heart. She has scented the rust
of blood, its salt abundance.

Her doggish ears tense forward.
Her gilt eyes narrow. Her pulse comes fast
and…

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