A Wild Night

The wind blows pell-mell through the trees 
Braiding branches in twists and turns 
Then waving them like palms to the Messiah, 
The fragile end twigs ripped off and cast aside 
Like chaff on the threshing floor 
While craggy remnants of broken limbs 
Brandish like the arthritic fingers of three hags 
Pointing blame as Lady Macbeth lies faint, 
Proclaiming fair is foul, and foul is fair 
And indeed, as this feral wind stirs the air 
Howling at the moon, a restless wolf 
In darkened cloak, sending shivers down the spine, 
Even the shadows cast by the night 
Run in reckless circles, uncertain where to hide. 

   


Janet Reid
april 2008





Awarded by Poetic Constellations