Grant Tarbard

powders

the path of death lies

cloudy as a winters dawn

fog bank glaucoma 

the ash of the king

tied to the hitching post urn

ghosts in the footsteps

the king's sash is used 

for the colouring of ink

and pharmacists pills

--

fruitless dawn-to-dark

sifting the flour of 

the dead is to sieve 

crisp snow flakes through a

Hula-Hoop, ending 

up with an ashen 

sky and snow covered

shoes. The dead are small,

the dead are changelings 

making graves out of

birds nests, paper and 

those pillow thoughts which 

so encumber you

unravelling to

dust in the shadow 

of slit throat sunlight 

--

catch a reaper by the toe

half-slave and half-free

to my minds whims and fancies

in Pandora's box 

crawling in the dirt 

I skewer Death's fleeing foot,

catch Grim by the toe

bowed I dive amongst 

the bustle and bind of the 

swift bursting bubble