Threadbare Phantasm

by grimbeau

Worsted, Tweed, Galician calicos, reamed
cotton screed, diaphanous silks, dour,
coarse linens, Chinese screen tableaux
of mislaid epochs, safe and unsafe tapestries,
sad stacked in the old mead hall, the conference centre,
the hubristic hub of soft arrogance now

The once sure folk have fled, melted or mutated,
The meek ones headed for the hills, where they crouch
and mooch, sucking on stale breadsticks
in their shell holes, caves and calcified barrows.
The diehards who fought foolhardy rear-guard actions –
smoulder in stockyard bone stooks stand pyrrhic
before the Sacrifice


With the Labyrinthines gone away, nature is displeased,
Ever abhorrent of void it convenes
Bison, heck, leopard, eel and titmouse,
Louse, curlew, ptarmigan, to settle
a modus of repair. They soon conclude the obvious:
You are only as good as your last, worst