Stalker of Souls

Stalker of Souls
 
 
I plod these woods beneath sharp shafts of sin –
carried calm within waves of the moon.
The sun shines grave for trackers of wolves:
and night for the hunters of men.
 
Past dips and rolls I hole up in a cave
where lakes echo with sad cries of loons.
Under bluing nights and golden days
I know I cannot return too soon
to my heart’s home; my life’s urgent song
no, I cannot return too soon.
 
Entering camp, as the moon winks goodbye,
brother sun climbs the far mountain’s crest,
East emblazons a coral red sky:
Sister Moon curtseys down in the West.
 
I can barely see; the light fires so bright
and I trip on the branch of a tree
open my eyes and stare at the sight:
stone dead among the burned debris.
 
Bodies froze stiff, left in postures of pain
vacant eyes open wide t’ward the land.
I shake my head and adjust my mind.
Lift up and gaze around where I stand.
 
No loved one now pumps a whisper of breath,
and I pitch through the field of our camp.
Rage burrows deep when I find my wife
dead from the many stabs of a knife.
My son, just six, with his outstretched arm
in a vain attempt to stave off harm…
…but I did not return soon enough.
 
Yes, the day was made for hunters of wolves
and night for the stalkers of souls.
 
I turned from camp and trudged away
scraping mountains, listing over the hills
hunter of night and hunter of day
knowing well in my heart and my mind
through ancient woods I would roam and rift;
would float down full rivers until I find
the camp of murderous men I would gift
their singular hell; flames hot, blood spills.
 
For night is made for the hunters of wolves
and daylight for the hunters of men.
 
So I plod these woods through indigo nights
burdened low by my sharp shafts of sin.
 
 
 
 
 
 
Barbara Helvey Hughes, 10/2000/11-16-2011/9-23-2020 EDIT