A little bored,
A little angry
With the world
Aging February
Slinks into
The Loki Throne,
Fingers the runes
Carved in the walrus ivory arms,
Speaks the Words of Summoning
That draw forth
Ice-harsh winds
That whip and claw
The earth below.
Reactions of the mortals
Bring a grim, satisfied smileto
The corners of the cruel mouth.
February dons the Misrule Mask:
“Light you fires?”
He mocks in whisper-voice,
“To warm the bones
That you borrowed from clay?”
“To purify the ground?”
“To summon the Fisher-King?”
“Mark my words well
You Sons of Passing Time:
Does he listen for your call,
This tree nailed,
Twice drowned fool?
“For answer, cast your eyes to
Your stuttering fire:
I doubt it!”
22/2/2013
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