wolves, worms

two old grey spectres moved
on old grey killers’ legs
through a moss-dark wood,
knowing that the path stirred open for them
where they moved toward shadowy rites―

it wasn’t a fast food odyssey.
it wasn’t a border-war.
they grimaced, but a panther smiled
in their failing heart-stones.

summer was burning in a spruce,
curling it green.
everywhere that water found itself
water cried a splutter of delight,
finding itself lost.

the shut houses of rocks
didn’t pretend to have fallen
from the sky―they certainly didn’t pretend
to be mortal. sun-shone sea-wind
shocked them with shells, in the hot heart
of the green land: grass-tears, rain-juice,
spells. time guffawed in a coma

and as for the wolves, worms
held many days of prayer
for the memory of their spirits,
before gnawing them into infinity.