“Tie yourself to the Tamarack Tree.”
The myrrh bears whisper.
Soft, as black breezes echo,
disguising mysterious literacy.
Though only yips and yelps now fire
rapid rustlings, through spined and knobbly spurs.
The light toys, wistful, within the dark ended day.
I’m spotted by a sable shadowed mover
at precisely the point he fixes on me,
his moon-like eye defying night.
He wears a shrouded mystery.
“Tie yourself to the Tamarack tree.”
Those echoes of vanillin sweetness;
aroma of a haunting, yet hunted, memory.
The resinous beast wears ebon furred skin,
transfers his weight, on branches of reddish-grey.
Held in his spiny madness, he startles
the cavernous nest of trees.
I delve through bitter, scented places
of ululating fear, press my hands through fingered roots,
in mossy thoughts, draw near; within the ceaseless
distant barks, the cuts and bleeds cry clearer.
I lick from gummy sap, a kiss
to which my flesh adheres.
“Dark dynasties, despair, for I defeat you.
Take needled skies, heave heaven’s hopes within.”
The myrrh bears in their frenzied spirit, shake the trees
to hear the heartwood of a mortal being’s song.
Jenny Meehan 2009 ( Written for one of the rounds of the Literary Mary Competition.)