Spectral Wood

Beneath the moon,Arboreal cloud,
Of misting leaves
That rustle loud;
Against a sky,
Obsidian dreams,
The night gods prowl,
Or so it seems.
Twinkling stars
Of prickled ice,
A shawl of silver
Without a price;
This is the night
Of deepest thought
Where centaurs hunt
And dryads flaunt,
The world I know,
Misunderstood,
The place whose name
Is Spectral Wood.

The Tabletop



 Skin stretched out before me
 
 Years trapped in the grain
 
 Polished memories of the past
 
 A thousand nights of rain
 
 So many sunbeam smiles in light
 
 With fingers stretched to God
 
 Now set out just to hold my drink
 
 I think that all so odd!
 

Grain of Past Lives



 In grain of wood lies honest truth
 Of years spent struggling to reach world’s roof.
 A time that seems so very far,
 Distant wafts of pure amber.
 Where overcoats were made of leaf,
 And mistral winds bore no teeth.
 Set against idyllic scenes
 That we envision in our dreams.
 Yet now I set my drink on you,
 Instead of admiring verdant view.
 But know I look at what was skin,
 And wish your world was my real kin.
 
 
 

Hoot



 There was a chill in the wood. Ice crept over and along the gnarled bark of the oak trees, creaking a slow passage. Acorns hung from glacial branches, glistening adornments to the wood’s mighty guardians.
 
 The owl didn’t give a hoot.
 
 Snow began to fall across the countryside. So delicately applied coating was it that even a master confectioner would have approved of the effect. The oaks stood cold but proud in their new porcelain finery.
 
 The owl didn’t give a hoot.
 
 A little mouse braved this brand new winter world. He’d never seen the snow before. He thought it beautiful, so pretty, everything sparkled. The wood was so peaceful, so quiet in his last moments of that silent night. That’s because…
 
 The owl didn’t give a hoot.

 (Image courtesy inspirednatureprints.com)

In Darkest Night


A flickering deceives his hunter’s eye as lantern spits and then runs dry.
The trees they seem to stoop and grasp towards this man, his dye is cast.
For normal wood this place is not, as every tree holds hangman’s knot.
And every creaking, groaning branch claws to him as if to snatch.
The hunter’s made of sturdy stuff but fear he has of this enough.
Compounded, frightful, his nerves they ache, as crow does call and storm does break.
Retrace his steps through wind and rain, but trail is lost as well as brain.
Lost and scared he cannot think his way through all this blackest ink.
Torn to bits by briar and thorn the hunter dies, his death forlorn.
For when you hunt without a light, you’re tempting fate in darkest night.


(Image courtesy wyldraven on deviantart.com)

A Lycan Night

Lycan Night image

Slowly, slowly, moving on
I follow the lead of my venting breath
A chill
The hairs on my neck stand on end
Every crack of twig
Every whoosh of wind
And every second is an eternity

Moon strays from behind cloud
Illuminating a darkling wood
A call. My blood freezes
I am frozen
I want to move
But only my ears seem to work
They are listening for what is to come

The call again
It is that of a broken soul
I empathise
I cannot run. I cannot look
Fear has taken me
I grip at the tree I cower behind
There is no reassurance in return

A low, deep, growl. Closing steps
Steaming, warm, breath
Drool on my neck
I close my eyes
And take my final breath
Death has found me