The Bogle

Into the gloam, the cracked path descending,

You weave your way through the glen and the flood.

You crush the wild garlic, then 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 all possibilities.

Puncturing your future, I follow you home.