Wednesday, August 13, 2014


Swanson Piper
By Paul Tristram

With a silent fluid movement
arrow shaft cartwheeled
from quiver to bowstring to target.
There was a small, soft thud
as the arrowhead shattered
through the chest bone
of the un-expecting buzzard.
Jerking it backwards at speed
several feet away from the cadaver
it had just been crouched upon.
Sensing the clearing was now safe
he stealthily stepped out
from the edge of the silver birch
traversing the damp, mossy ground
interspersed with half buried
ancient castle turret stones.
“You fought well, my friend
but it’s now time to take you home,
the Old Gods are awaiting you!”
He whispered respectfully
as he shouldered the weight.
Then turning thicket-bound again,
whistled sharply thrice to signal
the other Aftermath Gatherers
of his reclaim and returning.

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Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.


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