Rambler’s End
A Fantasy’ish Poem
Lapwing, lacewing,
Yellow glare
Fruitless mouths
Hollow stare
Black eyed bird
Birthless mare
Browning fields
Fiery flare
Trodden paths
Fleeing hare
Sunken pits
The dead live there
Boggy ground
Tread with care
Narrow cuts
That go nowhere
Crooked gates
The lost beware
Shadow dance
In the witch’s lair
Fleeting glimpse
Auburn hair
Love is done
No more to dare
Traps been sprung
Our fate is fair
Death’s a given
How sweet the air
Moth wing flutter
Heart laid bare
Eyes fall still
Distant,
Trumpets,
Blare.
© Chris Noonan
Thank you for reading. I often get lost on my walks, especially when the wind is howling and the rain coming at me from an angle. Those chocolate box cottages with their rose shrouded windows take on a sinister hint and I imagine horrors lurking behind hedgerows, waiting to pounce from flowery borders. What they don’t know is that if I’m wet and cold enough I’ll agree to anything. Ritual sacrifice? As long as I get a cup of tea first and some dry socks.
