Lady Elassara of Trate

White petals spin and curl on their way

down to the depthless sea.

The woman and her basket, her hand flashing red

in quick soft motion scattering these

pure wings, to ride a moment on the wind.

She stands, a forlorn goddess birthing flight

that fails and falls on the river’s broad breast.

A basket of birds destined to drown.

See her weep in the city’s drawn shadow

her hand a thing disembodied,

carrion-clawed and ceaseless in repetition,

she delivers death and in her eyes

is seen the horror of living.

Lady Elassara of Trate

Cormor Fural

(MT, UK Trade, p.257)

Our Waiting God

We live in waiting

For this most precious thing:

Our god with clear eyes

Who walks in to the waste

Of our lives

With the bound straw

Of a broom

And with a bright smile

This god brushes into a corner

Our mess of crimes

the ragged expostulations

We spit out on the morn

With each sun's rise

We live in waiting, yes

In precious abeyance

Cold-eyed our virtues

Sowing the seeds of waste

In life's hot earth

In hand the gelid iron

Of weapons

And with bright recompense

We soak this ground

Under the clear sky

With the blood of our god

Spat out and heaved

In rigour'd disgust

Our Waiting God

Cormor Fural