The Procession of Flames.

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Often I wake.

To a great distance, I focus my gaze
through the window out past the gate,
between the cloud and shadow's sway...
There is a shape that moves in grey.


Something like long robes from an olden age,
draped over some great, grotesque frame.
Treading tall hedges and bales of hay
nary a stalk stretching over it's waist.     


Through river and valley, across ledges and lake,
slowly advancing, nothing hindering it's pace. 
Night after night, closer, but always the same.



...



All the way it has come, all the way to my gate.
All is quiet and dark, when it calls out my name.

I knew it would come, and so I did wait
behind a shock of grain to meet the wraith.


It stood still a moment, then looked my way,
unlit by moon, unmoved by wind, rose it's shape..
slowly ascending the fog and haze.
 

Black thorned brambles wrapping it's sleeves and waist,
boughs of spruce and pine making rough hewn legs.
Stretching it's arms out as if to embrace,
revealing a gnarled, half rotted, wolf's face.
    


...



So taken by it's form and grace,
I couldn't notice the hiss of flames
and crescendo to a roaring blaze,
ripping across fields like sun to day.

"Ancient spirit!Cursed Demon!
Tell me why you have came!"

...

















Before I could run, before it could say..
the effigy lit and we burnt away.

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