Into the gloam, the cracked path descending,
You weave your way through the glen and the flood.
You crush the wild garlic and bending,
Find claw-tipped prints, pressed into the mud.

A stickled oak slumps its sodden carcass
Across your path. Below, the moss green bed
Slouches and yawns into the darkness,
At the end of the trickle burns head.

Brian Rutherford

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