The Beginning of a False Prophecy

I await the blood.

The moon, immaculate,

sets forth across the bay window.

The fourth in the tetrad,

fear and hope boil down in the same blue-grey pot;

prayers steam and rise across the world.

My whisky glass fills,

distilled from grain-grown

in the fields of life,

where top soil tears are turned,

rocks of regret removed,

time is the till, friends the furrow,             

and the soul-searching-seeds planted

together have ripened;

tonight’s silver is relied upon to harvest reflections.

One more season to endure

till Spring next year;

only if we survive tonight of course.

My whisky glass fills.

I await the blood.

Tomas Bird - Glass Wood 2016