Saturday, 18 January 2025

One Poem by Kit MacAllister

 






The Invitation

 

A-walking home at waning day 

thru rushes green 

and bows of bay, 

I spied a stream like golden braid 

as bright as any blushing maid. 

Beside it I 

in mallow laid. 

 

The sun at rest, 

linger'd long 

at world's brim. 

He winked at me 

and I winked at him. 

 

At long, afar 

a crystal star 

crown'd branches birch, 

with silver fire. 

I dreamt and whiled away the hour. 

 

As slow as milk 

a fog crep'd round, 

like hound with snout 

on scented ground. 

I, in the nook, awoke and shook, 

my path was nowhere that I looked. 

I drew my cloak 

while clawing dusk, 

drew swiftly round the hallow'd brook. 

 

Alone, a lantorn drew I near. 

A rustle caught my nervous ear, 

a creeping growth 

like searching root, 

like squirming earthworm under foot. 

Up from the earth, 

the quick loam boiled, 

my lantorn doused, 

though freshly oiled. 

 

A sharp-eyed mongrel 

in shadows stoop'd, 

wolven mawed 

and cloven hoov'd, 

with bangl'd wrists and tatter'd cloak, 

his movements soft and slow as smoke. 

He jingled as he scuffled bout, 

searching low with curled snout. 

 

Amazed, afeared, alone, agape, 

I stowed myself in shadowed nape, 

and prayed to hasten my escape. 

 

He sung a faint, unearthly tune, 

in tongue unknown, 

in light of moon. 

He danced in twisted, circling ways. 

With wand he drew a dev'lish maze 

upon the earth, 

and so came furth 

a glim'ring fire like blazing hearth. 

 

I gasp'd, 

and quick as broken glass, 

I captur'd was within his grasp. 

His smell was sweet as sour fruit, 

his eyes were black as chimney soot, 

but swiftly shaped his awful look 

to succour sweet, 

he wep'd, 

he brushed my cheek, 

and bowed as deep as sunken fleet. 

 

With gilded, lilting syllables, 

he beg'd forgiveness for flaws. 

He guiding, took my hand and pled, 

extolling me he promised 

to lead me to a sacred place, 

to halls of glass and silver'd lace. 

 

Amaz'd I followed in his wake, 

down bounding brook 

to stoney gape, 

thru crevice crack'd 

o'er boulders lep'd, 

thru caverns deep 

where spiders slept, 

down tunnels long 

with stairways winding, 

thru ancient ways not meant for finding, 

to doorway tall as aged oak, 

where umber shadow'd words he spoke. 

 

"Ae'lil e nothre, glimr'n vjill. 

Daijun si dornje, silsvn gyuill." 

 

A golden light rose thru the cove, 

a glinting golden goblin trove, 

baubles, goblets, swords, hoards, 

rubied staves from noble lords, 

jewelled crowns from distant realms, 

platters piled with silver helms. 

And o'er it all a fire glimmer'd, 

the smell of roasting savours simmer'd, 

and rumbling laughter, glasses clinking, 

cackling, smoking, choking, drinking. 

 

A troupe of wicked alder kin, 

grabbed and pinched and pulled me in. 

"Sit! Join! Eat! Drink! 

Our food is fine, our wine is sweet!" 

They sat me on a cushioned throne, 

by broiled boar and basted bones, 

by pickled plums and candied scones. 

They crowed and bowed, and bade me drink, 

and rapt me with a downy mink. 

 

"Our king! Our King! 

Our wond'rous cruel and wicked king!" 

I stood and held my glass in toast, 

embraced the fondness of my hosts. 

I told them I would join their hoard 

and be their grinning goblin lord. 

And now I am the goblin king, 

a fattened vile wild thing. 

 

You think perhaps you'd run away? 

All men are wicked in their way. 

So stay! 

Join! Eat! Drink! 

Our food is fine, our wine is sweet!







Kit MacAllister is a Portland based writer, designer, and digital artist. By day he develops high-tech digital experiences for augmented reality, by night he writes short stories, poetry and long-form speculative fiction. He is currently drafting his first novel.

 

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One Poem by Kit MacAllister

  The Invitation   A-walking home at waning day   thru rushes green   and bows of bay,   I spied a stream like golden braid   as bright as a...