Nails of the tree
The nails of the tree scrape the window at night.
The clouds are keeping very still
and the face of the moon
will soon fill out
with promises of angry blood.
Cats fight in the dark
over souls that dared not seek new territories.
Like mice they flee and are disassembled.
In bedrooms blankets are the key
to a safe passage through the dark:
tucked in - do not show the naked skin.
Beast and ghoul cannot devour you
if soft sheets cover all of you.
The lukewarm air is now so still
that you could almost be forgiven to forget
that in the next few seconds
it will be inhaled again by night -
and all your thoughts
and hopes and dreams
sucked quietly
into its humid mouth.
The night’s so ravenous and still,
dressed in a million breathing corpses,
waiting for the magic of new light.
The nails of the tree scrape the window.
It’s not exactly a tattoo of hope
but it’s all you’ve got now
to remind you of the soil
where all will come and gather in the end.