THE WRAITHE

Tortured tossing, weary fettered limbs
Wafting shadows made by leaves
Windowpane caressing.
Blood red moon spans taut old crone
Who rouses as if with feathered touch.
Did the curtains touch?
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Pale faced creature came to look
Upon the seemingly unknowing
Whose mirrowed mind antennaed
The silent grievened face, twitching
Ivory darted, tormented,
Lonely and bereft,
Half a face coloured blue shattered.
Dew lit eyes dripping frosted topaz,
And in the broken breast
The short sharp shaft.
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In timeless space where merging worlds of consciousness
Create the consoling communion,
Dualistic mind wroughts the night extinction-
Whiskered greybeard Crone watches, feels pain of phantom fairy child
On mission not heard in busyiness of day,
loud honking horns.

One eye open, old woman’ realization
Fissures open the fussiness of mind,
Which sees the cartouched mask
Hiding misfortunes, lack of comfort touch,
Sharpness , fiery tongue now muted,
But pluck to travel by the night,
Weaving shadows lurking
Outside- the boobook calls.


Crone now spinning in a duplicated world
Of loud and honking horns,
Sleeping babes oblivious,
Grey spotted windows with fat black spiders
Staring, building, breeding,
There the wandering fairy Wraithe now sleeping
Merged in Eve formed woman dreaming
The tender touches of the night
And warmed hearth with husband bright,
Not tired and lean, beaten
Ratlike, from casual foraged work
Crone watches, guards and waits.
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The Wraithe now earthbound,
Mysterious dreamer
Of the darkened sultry night
Yet a Daystar of another Light
Who rises in quantum worlds seeking.-
Time to rise, relationships reborn,
O sweet Lady Luck,
Manifest, Manifest , manifest
Hope.
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Althea Rhyl Bell ©