The death-rattle wind
comes early,
sliding in,
a lurker,
a robber,
or a burglar,
and it pilfers the warmth
from our coats
and from our pockets.
It throws open the door,
so that the midnight
watchers
can see
our shoulders slumping.
We pressed our hands
over the cracks, but
like hunger, the living
could never hold back
the unforgiving chill
of the reaper’s night.
Besides,
our arms were weak
and our fingers ached,
those skeletal remains,
forged by hunger,
trembled and quaked
like dry leaves,
or broken branches,
granted a little life
by the death-rattle wind
as it was stirred awake
by the quiet whipping
of her ebon cloak’s
muddy hem.
©️ Obol, 2020.
