The Airing Cupboard

inside,
softest cushioned snow
snowflakes and stars smother my lashes
unexpected storm fronts rage
like the weather of sagas

inside
bottomless lagoons
perfect-sided sinkholes
bored into the Jurassic of my soul,
monsters from the midnight zone
swell like tides of plankton

inside
coiled in coppery darkness, against
the womb-heat of the hot-water tank,
summer, nineteen-seventy-three
sprawled outside in Technicolor,
sun-bleached and over-exposed

inside
pale torchlight, a tortoiseshell
frantic in the hot cage of my fingers,
whispers booming on the well of the stairs
eager for bones to anchor
their lost souls

Patrik Gryst

Song of the Timber Wolf

there is no darker path than mine
where tree-roots sound hollows‎ deep
without green shoots

others hunt in valleys
where buffalo grow fat on grass
where sunlight brightens eyes

and in the lightless wood I’ll dance
less trodden ways I’ll trod
where my twilight-eyes will scout
for snout and claw and hoof

there is no longer path than mine
where the forest of an endless night
casts trees and rocks in winter iron

others sleep under stars
where cool winds swirl the grass
where moonlight keeps a watch

and in the dead-light wood I’ll pine
less trampled ways I’ll trod
where my wintered-eyes patrol
each song, each verse, each line

Patrik Gryst