The Sleet Rattled Down Poem by James Walter Orr

The sleet rattled down on the great sloped roof,
like a lion tearing flesh from a yearling kid,
or the caliche clods of a fresh-dug grave,
as they rattle down on a coffin's lid.

The walls of the room were painted red
and yellow, and warmed by the firelight's shine,
and they shifted and danced with darks and lights,
from the leaping flames from the resinous pine.

Bare branches beat on the window's shutter:
unable to reach the window pane;
the wind unable to seep inside;
to freeze my heart or numb my pain.

A moan with the tone of the banshee's wail,
or the dying squall of the ogre's mate
pierced the mighty sound of the storm's torment,
and the hinges groaned on the big front gate.

I unlatched the door and peered without,
attempting to see what made such a sound,
and a whirling gust of the demon wind
sucked me through the door, flung me to the ground.

I turned my head, with a scream of fear,
as the door slammed shut in my very face.
My throat swelled shut and my heart near failed,
as I heard the bar dropp into place.

The night dropped down like a velvet cloak,
as a monstrous form hovered over me.
I froze in fear and my breath choked off:
Too scared to scream, too scared to flee.

My ghostly form stands aside, unseen,
as the hearse hauls its gruesome burden by.
The wind blowing out of my frigid heart,
tugs the clothes of the mourners passing by.

The caliche clods of the fresh-dug grave,
as they rattle down on the coffin's lid,
have the sound of sleet on a great sloped roof,
or a lion tearing flesh from a yearling kid.