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Above the fog a gibbous moon is growing
or, farther on, a nebula bursts.

Beneath, before an urgent train,
deliberately a body breaks;
frail as an arrow from an iron bow.

and countless wheels revolve
on distant rails towards vacant junctions
whose cries
issue and are lost in the blind watches of the night.

Air shifts; the fog bends from the brightening stream
where scales glint between reaches thick with sedge.

but in the towns the streetlamps, brutal and bright as lions,
prowl through the lifting mists
and each eye traps in brilliant lids
a carnage or a void.

All forms are savaged as they come:
maimed men who limp on club-leg,
garroted men with meths-blue faces,
women whose secret hangs
like flesh upon a blunted fang,
and all the ashen faces of the dead.

Forms hatched in anonymous darkness, sane,
spawn into light;
quick life from thickening fungus,
spores of pain.

Beyond the fog the harvest moon
lifts its fullness through an empty sky.

the rails are cleared of incongruity and blood.
the seasonal change approaches.


© Trevor Joyce