Mark Heathcote (22/03/66 / Manchester)
Tonight the wind is a bone-cutter
Gnawing away; at any internal natural peace.
Any muscular sinew that hasn’t fallen-
Off the bone and still begs for release….
`Is discarded dropped to earth like a dying petal?
Ah, now hear the wolf cub’s hungry howl…
He, who is only a playful mauler,
All gums and white needle teeth!
Who hasn’t had the last-bite of a black-cherry?
Just to find a pit, a stone, beneath the sweet.
And so you and your master can’t be released.
And why because its howls are heard…
Roaring, rigorously, after you; its royal lions, share!
Not so long-ago, I was his, only brother!
Holding fast; like a tiger.
On the back of his sliver-sleigh,
His sky-blue chariot…
But now I’ve found a pass… through the mountains.
He wants only to tear the hide off me back…
He’s not out here to play.
Tonight the wind is a bone-cutter.
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