And as the gale enchantress
Spoke her gusty spells
In leaf-blown words
Through branches.

A lake’s eye moved across
To follow her grey, dismaying skies
His brow was a mirrored, bandy cumulus
Furrowed at the ugliest day’s demise.

Whilst I wandered the rebel city
Without a pocket or pence
Nor a name to barter with. Free —
From burden, pay, lamp and sense.

Rich and poor’s ancient shadows
Contended for wealthy moonlight
‘Til flocks of silhouetted arrows
Brought piercing dawn’s
Shed new light.

Beggars huddled and bunched
Like laces in doorways, sleep
Pulling their hoods up to the morning
Adjacent to the snoring
Castle’s keep.
Their energy is too tied up
In knots to beseech
Their outturned fingers
And palms
Clasping bronze faces
For a silver peace.

Yet the scarlet-orange
Price decay
Of princely nights
Turned to pauper’s days
Once more round was paid
Beneath uneven ground
Where the rebels vanished
In pavements
Lain.

© poormansdreams