The Spectre and The Mule

A pack mule and a spectre gather round

The protruding roots of an old oak

Gnarled and twisted with arthritic branches

Trembling in the damp breeze of a cold spring.

.

Moss blankets its trunk,

Lays itself like a coat across the wide shoulders

Of the old creature

But it colours the feet of the weary travellers too,

Decorates the dark depths

Of tired red-rimmed eyes.

.

They are slow movers.

Water-talkers.

Their words flow lazily like the creek,

Gurgle with gossip like rivers that cut

Wide swaths through land and sky alike.

.

The tree is their old resting spot.

They have huddled beneath its shade

Since the first wobbling days of its youth

Where it snapped and broke and trembled

Each time the sky darkened.

And when five hundred years ago

The ancient trunk snapped and fell,

The spectre and his mule were there too.

.

Cradling the bark, lifting the limbs,

Nimble, familiar fingers sewed it back together

With a few more scars

And a few less branches.

The tree shouldn't have lived

But the spectre and his mule were never much

For the rules carved by the emotionless stars.

.

They were supposed to collect spirits,

Bones, ash, and the forgotten gold fillings

Of teeth that laughed and snarled and bit

Through the meat of life.

They were ordered by gods and devils alike

To throw them to the sea and feed the stars.

.

A pale, shimmering hand settled upon the trunk.

Soft murmurings followed, brushing down the bark

With a long-overdue hello.

Cosmic rules could not command chaos.

Ancient things subsisted on the last of the stardust

Still cluttered in the bones of forgotten graves.

.

The saddlebags of dead words and empty skulls

Would never find their resting place.

Not the one ordained by the hungry stars.

Ghostly hands hooked around the heavy leather

And shook out all the bones and ashes and tears

Around the flare of the old trunk.

She would remain.

.

The ancient tree swallowed greedily,

A whisper of thanks rustling through the canopy as

Great green leaves widened, catching the moonlight.

The ancient oak was sustained by the dead dreams

Cluttering up the corridors in the bones.

She took them and wove the ethereal thoughts into her sap

And healed the eternal wound wrapping around her neck.

.

The stars would have torn apart the dreams

Stringing like nebulas from bones to brain

And spat out useless hopes and toxins.

They would dig fiery fingers into human bones,

Shred them for enjoyment, and shear the hope

From the lingering dreams in forgotten corpses.

.

The mule set its head upon roots.

The spectre sat beside his old friend,

Hand rising and falling with steady breaths

That could never disturb the wind.

Above stars glimmered and flickered, screamed with rage.

The oak lived on, a black necklace wrapped around its trunk

And dreams decorating its canopy.

.

Silver Serpent Books

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This poem was stuck in my head for too long, was deleted three full times, and now is here because it won't leave. I hope you enjoyed it. There's a vibe in there somewhere. Maybe I caught it, maybe I didn't but bleh. Here it is anyway!