Where now


The mist enthralled horn


Of the sacred bull


In the morning snow?


Where the circling stair of dawn,


Lost in the clouded mountain


Heights.  Gone.


Fled from the grinding cars


Of destruction.




Yet still,


The winged bull


Did not die.


He waits on the far hill,


Beyond the last constellation


Of the sky,


His gold hoof pawing the thin air,


His breath






For the downfall of the masters


Of death,


For the undoing


Of the king of disasters,


Waiting to regain


His half-forgotten


Realm, that the lakes of the full


Moon may smile again,




The heron


Walks on her silver toe


Across deep pools of stars.




© Sharon St Joan, 2013, written in 2007



Photo: © Yuriykulik | Dreamstime.com