Wind gusted fitfully.
Like thoughts, blown at random, by,
In the forest where he sat,
Against an ancient wrinkled oak,
Waiting for the sun to set.
Buried deep, in dark, a place
As dry as bone and dust,
One bright candle fluttered,
Wax bound wick afloat,
And shadows danced, disturbed,
In that dark and faded place,
Where his memories, interred,
Had lain at rest.
Ice and Snow,
Hair white, wreathed, afloat,
In wind laced snow,
Eyes like ice, frosted grey,
Reflecting all she saw,
And much she saw,
Red berry lips, a wound,
Whereon a smile incised,
A smile that cut him, deep,
When she inflicted it on him.
And he remembered hounds, coursing,
The river of that hunt that took him, quarry,
Far across the forest, glen and fields, away,
And once returned, his world, a dream, an echo,
Of Faerie splendour once endured,
His heart encased by her, no other.
He remembered then, as breath, expired,
And he was still, soft sun gently probing,
As dark within descended, relief,
His eyes, now stilled, empty and opaque,
The candle sputtered, wick expired,
All bladed thoughts of her, at last, excised.
© Greg Richards
Theme from D29 2016, a Poem of things remembered a little a la Brainard, but only slightly