The Woodsman

Is it the emaciate sigh of cattle,
The rattle of rusted chimes,
That leads you out,
Under iron skies?
Either way, too young to understand
That fate has planned
A day with blood in mind.

But you go.
Over the brook and into the wood.
The October wind,
A warning and a guide
To the sodden dell,
And a man who tends
A pyre of smoking leaves.

Who is he - Appalachian
Red Neck or spectre?
You cannot know.
Yet in his plaid back,
Patterns of your madness form.
Across the earth,
The sparrow bears his storm.

In his shuddering limbs,
The world warps.
Like the teeth that fall
From his lips as he speaks,
But this is not speech.

More the squeal of a butchered sow,
Unturfs the rot underground.
Curls and conspires
To stop feet in stone,
You cannot go.

And so...,

In an instant,

A pitch-fork rests
Within your throat.