After the Wolf Blood Moon

This is a season of crisp and crackle,
layers of ice, snow, dead things,
the cries of crow and grackle.

Small creatures hide and hope for spring
while wind prods, pushes frosty
layers of ice, snow, dead things

as if to tell she’s in charge, haughty.
A keen sweep of time, all surrounding,
while wind prods, pushes frosty

air; our candles in the dark, guttering,
our dreams dragged seaward, with the tide,
a keen sweep of time, land, all surrounding

into a place where hope cannot abide.
How can it be so cold, so cruel?
Our dreams dragged seaward with the tide

provide this frigid hell with fuel.
This is a season of crisp and crackle.
How can it be so cold? So cruel,
the cries of crow and grackle.

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Rebecca Clifford’s poetry and prose have been widely published at home and in international anthologies and e-zines. She lives rurally, near a watershed, gardens with a backhoe, and plants as many sunflowers as the ground will hold.