Fear

A rambling mutter that

Springs from the gutter

And robs me blind.

I ask it for directions

And its inflections usher me home.

It’s the quaking stomp of the unknown

The silent dangle of the puppet grand master

The hidden gem that’s yet to be cut.

I can cope with the thin wedge of the fierce blade edge.

The march of the howling toward me when in sight.

But this phantom

The septic spectre that forever

Eludes in feuds

Is my one true terror.

I make of this heady mix

And its fearsome tricks

A kind of fuel

that makes rations of blinks

and causes hearts to flutter like humming bird wings.

A great boosting cocktails to bathe my blood

Like some startled river

unsure of where to flow in times of flood.

 It seems to deposit grains of stone

In my flesh and bone

That hardens me against its next assault.

But not even a stone slab from an ancient hendge

Can survive the abrasion

Of the cool scentless vapour

Of the one true hidden terror.

How can the hawk squawk

And swoop when its prey

Is not even shadow?