The Hunter’s Moon

The light of the hunter’s moon is heavy and hard,

The folk in the fields fall fallow and sleep,

A deepness; a darkness within draws me down.

A seeping wretched soul, I feel. I seem. I am.

I sing great ballads of pain, belting out my bitter strife.

A knife-keen cut swells, to knot in my chest.

My blood bleeds thick, as sap from thick-skinned bark.

As the hunter’s hard moon shines and holds my heart.

I do not howl; I dream for those who died.

I cannot weep aloud, for wakeful eyes will know.

And those who sleep would see my soul stripped bare.

The shamble of a sodden man, his shame in hunter’s light.