Roasted honey red stretch

Friday, November 20, 2009

The Barrow Wight

I listen to the singing of the Barrow Wight

As I lie helpless upon the slab

The Cold seeping up from my feet

Into my heart, fogging my brain

I reach across to my best companion

Upon the slab next to me

But cannot see him, or find his hand to grasp

I cannot remember the song

To summon the fellow in the Bright Blue cap

Long years of Westernesse lie upon me

The bright jewels scattered about are useless baubles

With no sun to illuminate them

In this Barrow Mound


The Big Mac