The Shaman's Last Painting* Poem by elysabeth faslund

1.

One more deep moon arose through a breeze-wreathed twilight.
It loomed against the ancient, procrastinating Relic...
Advanced, regained it's throne...
Dissapating the sun in a silent gasp...the last scraps strangled
In shadow-penance.

Dark, swirling waters grappled the sand...scrabbled for shiny,
Scurrying things...
Crawled beside jutting cliffs to etch one more tiny scratch.
Wind-scythed waves tumbled down on moon-rimmed hollows...
Fanned into foam and hurried on.

2.

One footprint on rippled sand...the walker stopped to listen,
Recoiling from the stillness.
He left the waters' scattered bones, slipping softly into
Cliff shadow.
There was something of death about the water tonight.
Not yet, not yet...at least not here, now. He turned.

Gulls clumped together again...stilt-pranced where he had stood...
Eyed his movements, snapped a crab, and scruffled for the shell.
Their cries wailed through the dunes, scaled the precipice where
He stood.

He scowled at the waves...crests shivered like his fear.
They seethed, crawling into his foorprints...revealing them
As never-been
He watched the sea...felt it's tenacled groping...
Summoned Spirit for the Journey.

3.

Again the dry-tongued beast crouched in its brightening den,
Stretched a paw, yawned...jaws fanged with water lust.
It slinked out of it's timeless, worn hole and mounted it's rage
On the dew...licking morning dry.

Flame smutted the chiselled-smooth stone...fire almost out,
Barely tracing the painted figures in gold.
Many animals wove their magic into the wall. Years of hunts
Twined the ledges.
Skulls leered from rock shelves...he felt the eyeless sockets
Appraising, waiting, as he painted...
One more...painting.
One more line.
Torch flickering...
The shaman
Was dying.