GUTTER

At wild’s edge where wind chimes hedge Against the quick and dead And folks sift scraps to fill the gaps And keep the children fed, At bugle’s sound three souls rebound, Restored as if from sleep; Then keen to go, new friends in tow, The OTTER plumbs the deep.

In hallowed halls where silence falls At one staccato shush, A figure waits behind the gates To guide or give a push, But when the three arrive to flee She speaks of secret things; Then fierce and wise, with fiery eyes, The CRANE spreads out her wings.

As plans emerge, two paths diverge From one portentous Fork And heart and heart are wrenched apart By fortune’s fearful torque; So hand in glove the two make love Both sacred and profane, Not knowing when they’ll meet again— The OTTER and the CRANE.