Wolf Moon Fugue Poem by Gordon R Menzies

At Lakewind Camp the walls run
the somber greys of winter sky
with cracks like frost lightening
and whispers in the old paint
my companions are tea-stained
papers and blue-black ink, and
bruises rising up through the skin
and passing on, like misted glass
drifting by on the colder nights
when the wind walks in to tell
travelling tales of warmer windows
better companions, softer skins,
and what passes amid black branches
in the small woods beyond the door
amongst those who live there
and wait for the sun, as I do,
to return to these shadowed lands
to bring purpose and promise
to these sorely wounded hands