by Oliver Smith
He holds tight to the wild clematis’ floating seed —
flying on the wool of the Old Man’s Beard.
The whole tribe cling on
or ride on football-bodied Harvestmen:
the vampires are hunting in the green woods,
in the gorse and on the moors,
among the hogweed by the ditch —
swarming in their millions.
Today the undead are delicate
gossamer; shrunken things.
Yesterday they were somewhat bigger —
but, little by little, time wore them down
and made their legends thin.
A face lies buried among the lichen,
in the bough of the crabapple tree,
close-eyed and deep in thirsty dreams.
While the court feasts in the shadows
beneath the hemlock leaf.
They hunt beetles for their feed
or herd the graveyard worm
in the death-caps magic circle.
Their queen rules in her castle
beyond the reach of the sun;
far inside the dark-wood’s warren
on her golden throne.
Waiting in autumn’s silent nights,
illuminated by the pale glow of toadstools
and the fireflies’ cold light.
A blot of inky cirrus cloud
smuts a midnight moon,
that shines on a path though the mushrooms
beneath the palace towers
where the queen’s strange garden blooms:
a hundred thousand fungi
all hung with fairy skulls.
My poetry has appeared in Strange Horizons, Liminality, and Penumbric. I was awarded first place in the BSFS 2019 competition for his poem “Better Living through Witchcraft” and my poem”Lost Palace, Lighted Tracks” was nominated for the 2020 Pushcart Prize. My website is oliversimonsmithwriter.wordpress.com.
