The Bogle

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 the sphagnum in its beaded bed.
Slouching and yawning into the darkness,
Red ruins at the trickle burns head.

I am the something that swallows the day.
A taste of iron. On the tongue, a rough stone.
I leap, and tear the possibilities.
Puncturing your future, I follow you home.

—————-
Brian Rutherford

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