Ella
A land, a land I know, just over crystal hills,
Just over crooked mountains and their crooked kings
And trolls and lords and filthy beasts and so on and so forth.
That is, a land I know, so far away it chills
My blood (to think of talking rocks and trees and things
That never ought to have the nerve to talk considering),
Still haunts me in my sleep: how is Ella?
A wolf howls in the night, his fur-lined-muzzle song
A dirge. A rock tells me my wrongs, and wolves can sing
A duet with my land. A-howl, a-howl, a screaming howlish duet in the night.
And morning breaks all cheerily with sunbirds – wrong.
The books, they never tell of misty mornings rolling
Over misty nights, with not-so-much a tweet; the smoky-golden sun
Now haunts me as I march: how is Ella?
The backwash of some rude reptilian demon sprawls
Across my path. A lizard is no gentleman
To dull-sworded warriors or their lesser-mettle’d counterparts.
A wolf is more polite, though bard, than one who crawls
Away from- Away and leaves no step or floorplan
For the weary (or the lonesome, or the lovely woman left alone).
It haunts me when I think: where is Ella?
A rock-brained wolfish lizard beast who takes a bit
Of dull-edged metal and his courage, livelihood,
Money, portable belongings, deepest savings, heirlooms, love,
That is, a man who kissed her (there they sit,
But not ‘they’ and just ‘her’, upon the stoop, alone and good),
Left her. No man, no man would mix so fair with crystal hills.
Ella? How is Ella? It haunts me in the valley all alone.