One hundred stories
Has my friend
And black as the night
Is he
A mouth of gold
All fates foretold
He sings of
Noble deeds.
Our smallest still
His doublet down
In fierce roulette
And dread;
His battle-heart
Worn on his chest
In flags of
Flaming red.
As evenings’ chorus
Of the pond
Call pretty heads
To rest,
So darker woodland
Soundlings fond
Their sirens call
Caressed.
I, little brown
A literary thing
With so much more to say;
A thousand wrongs
Time-traveller long,
I see the lock and cage,
Sweetest is the silence
Falls soft upon the stage.
© Anna Murzyn January 2021
