Past the thorny brush
In Oakwood Hollow
Lies a silver pool
Bathed in starlight. Shadows
Dance while the streams froth,
And a bitter wind scampers
Among the leaves.
A lonely traveler stops
To wipe his beaten brow.
The path has lost him
And his wits have left him,
For in circles he walks,
Around and around
That silver pool as it drags
Him closer and closer
To its glittering maw.
Once he spots the metallic waters,
A thirst consumes him.
He clambers to the pond
And fills his gullet, iron heavy
On his tongue. When sated,
Blood tickles his cheeks. He stares
At his image in the glossy pool
And sees a smile wide
With glee. But ripples
Stir the surface,
And the reflection cries
In globs of grey. Its smile grows
As the liquid boils.
Soon its lips become the brim
And the traveler gazes
Down a depthless throat.
Then the water
Calms. The image
Fades. Again he wipes
His beaten brow. The traveler
Rises to stretch his legs and searches
For a homeward road. “But one last sip,”
He tells himself and turns to the shimmery pond
When a fetid tongue
From the depths
Catches him by the neck. Down
Down he sinks
Where no starlight dares go,
In the silver pool
Past the thorny brush
In Oakwood Hollow.
He Who Wanders 