Dwelling the margins, a life lived between sun and the snow, in the brackish, black waters after river and

before the sea. Edgelands, shoormal, twilight. The stag has long came and went from this glen, his

bellow an echo, musk a memory. The foil leads away from the clearing into true dark. So, leaves begin

to fall in shards of gold, becoming transfixed by cold light, and we go on existing, at the edge of night.


- More Poems -