I say I know the lore, but those mists prowl
with myth. It isn't sight, but sound, that twists
all thoughts to prey and predator. Yet what beast
is leaving these bones and prints? Such a size!
But no one hears. No science maps that moor.
My straying broke its ancient cloth, it oozed
and bubbled a breath that stank. Why do souls
sigh for the mire, seek out the tor, bruise the peat?
Curse all the doubters. A moon fractured the mist
and I saw the silhouette, unholy felid
that fed. Its snarl and claw scrawled its law.
You were moon-racked, the drinkers say. I drink.
Phil Wood wanders the cwm, where air dampens the moss bright
stone, to hear the whispers of ‘myth.’