Moulin

A short winter poem

Grinding ice cries out and yields
To the dimmest memories
Of fire. Down, down,
Cold coal twirls to transform,
A devilish Charybdis dragging
The glacier into its crushing self.
Only the pit remains
And swallows thirst.

Look at the gaping mouth
And tell me you dare step in
Believing you’ll come out again
Alive. You will not
Find the grindstone;
It is lost in the deep
Beyond the fatal face,
Vengeful teeth ready to tear,
Waiting to chew up
And spit out fools
Who challenge winter’s
Slow apocalypse.