the bonecup rattles,
counting pips on twilight—
what are the chances?
a raven dances crossroads
marked with menhir
waiting for dice to show
best the path through
gathering snow
under the stone
frames the door, her voice
singsonging of below
Each rune above is linked to my rune page on sceadugenga.com and can be clicked for a variety of information associated with each.
Happy new year.
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A couple of thinks on the cheap have occurred to me over the past few days.
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I don’t mean to be no trouble, but I am thinking of dyin.
He sat across from me, sipping his percolated coffee with one or three too many fistfuls of coffee thrown in “for good measure”. If you were to believe the tall tales he tells, he uses an old sock to filter out the biggest of the grounds, but I think that’s probably bullshit. Or it might not be bullshit and I’m just hoping that it is at least a clean old sock he uses for the purpose.
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some are dying days
drying as we curl
within ourselves
stained ruddy & dun
wrinkled & yellowed
under a low-hanging sun
drip
drip
drip
a life of rain gutter
cast-offs mouldering
the smell of bridges burning
on crisp autumn air &
some are dying days
between the spaces
us, drying, wytching alone
inside an empty grove
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