Nachtzehrer in Novembre

Autumnberry thistles

Goldenrod and woode

Crowding an infant oak

Near a berming meadow's nucleus

Dressing stagnant shadows

That revel in full focus

Traversing notes which flew

In the Woodsong's final opus.

Cracking in the sky 

Sending sorrows down 

Through the glades once travelled through

Washed out by sullen clouds

Hearth and umbre glow

Breaking hillsides holding pines

Channel of smoke, mercurial soot,

Bellowing from ogrish stone.

Wanderers of the night 

Chewing on burial shroud

Rising from the shapes of spruce

Prancing on their grave stone mounds.

Those dreaded forest walkers 

Gliding on the snow,

From the depths their hands held with

Frosted veils of boken soil.