Moon Mountain Spoke Poem by Paul Wilson

The hangover dawn rushes on the hill,
The beasts howl in the morning shrill
Where moon tongue shone hung, upon
Wildwood hill, the dark groves
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Over the brushwood by the wet wind swept
Westward, wept upon, at first light,
A dark young God, from a secret chamber,
Emerges, looks upon
The unknown tragedy...

The rout carried on the soft wind to his senses
But embalmed, between a panting moon
And damp earth's incenses…

Ancestors who vainly sought that moon
(‘heave-ho, boys! ') with glistening moon-eyes.
The warm, sick smells of their anointments rise....