Out among the bracken, the rocks and the dead fog has risen
Covered with mud and dew.
almost blinded by branches that stab through the cloak
This used to be a forest
Now it is damp ash, mould, death and bone
Lured here by voices carried on winds that batter
by howling and singing of drowning and final gasps,
The chattering of the dead mesmerises and urges me to fall;
to be trapped beneath the cloak.
Spoiled in the bog.
Breathing moss that fingers and joins one's blood
that will flow to this mass womb of lost, drifting, mad shadows.