The Crow King

Memories of the haar wreathed hill
are preserved in resinous sunlight,
like a paperweight pinning clouds
against the sky. Vapour documents
that record a story cycle;
legends of Atlantis written on
the western wind. Centuries of shadow
have sunk beneath the loam; aswim
in deep currents of geology.
Speech falls from the cavernous
dark of mouths; an avalanche of stones.
Breath stinks of worms. The Crow King wears
a torc of twigs and plucks one last
feather from his breast. Scatters seeds
of blood to inseminate the forest floor,
where creatures born of carrion
and braided roots are dancing; drunk
on fermented sap of ferns.
They strip the flesh from each other’s
finger bones to fashion ear-rings and string
a psaltery with dried tendons.
In mockery of men, they sculpt fat
dildoes out of flint and spark them
against hearthstones; scratching futhork script.