Bonesplinter Ravine poetry is a way of taking life by the throat

he knows not what drives him ahead,
wind at his back, eyes to his front
as trees pass in a collage of tall slender boughs
with dark, unexplored shadows resting between.


hunger, maybe - or perhaps the settlement of
doom which throttles his shoulders
draping languid as a long black cat
waiting for the perfect moment to leap.


he stops at a tall junction of stone
propped against the westerning sun
sunken now, a red meridian aflame
and feels a shudder as the cold creeps within.