Weeping Woods

A sonnet for an epic fantasy setting.

A picnic in the darkling woods nearby;
A chance to hear the evening wind blow in;
Watch dampened leaves of poplar trees then fly
Beneath the blackened sky and moon's chagrin.

A picnic in the shadows long and dark,
Which pallid pechs did cast across the lake;
The passing patron leaves a flaming mark
With which to pierce the groaning gloom they make.

A picnic in the weeping woods at dusk;
In autumn when the changeling winds arrive
And all the world is inside-out, a husk
That stumbles neither dead nor much alive.

A picnic with the draugr in the woods;
The changeling wind blows off their many hoods.

A fire and a full moon in the woods near Wellington, New South Wales (2019).