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357th Weekly Poetry Contest winner: Ode on the Devil's Chair

by Fliss

Bleak rocks, for sure no man seeks respite here
nor loiters gladly at such seething heights,
where brimstone burns its paths through jagged air
that howls in pain through piercing cries of kites.
Geologist may fix a neat account:
pale quartzite ridging over glacial sheets,
tors rising sharp in freeze and thaw extremes;
were he to venture darkling by this mount,
fresh trails might turn his tracks from worn conceit
and newfound fractures cleave his test regimes.

Proud throne, illumined by no earthly light,
but collecting spirit flares and witching fire
that cluster yearly come the shortest night
above the misty swirls upon the mire.
See! Lucifer surveys his summoned throng,
presides election of their leading force,
rejoices cruelly in their gruesome games;
the Stiperstones resound in ancient song
and chants run streaming over bloodied gorse
till dawn engulfs in shrouds of scarlet flames.

See all the entrants to 357th Weekly Poetry Contest