Even poets have to serve jury duty,
so this week's installment is a bit shorter
while I play catch-up on everything else.
It was dark inside the tobacconist’s shop.
The wolfhound that was Dietrich skidded to a stop,
Baring his teeth and snarling angrily.
Something was wrong; the walls were missing.
That sense of enclosure, that sense of being
Inside a building was simply gone.
He heard no echoes, nor did he smell
The aroma of tobacco or mint. Instead
He felt the gentle breath of a breeze
Bare of the woodland scents he knew.
He glanced back over his shoulder;
The glow of the moon could not be seen
Through the shattered door – indeed,
The door itself could no longer be seen.
He moved forward slowly, a throaty
Rumble growing ever louder with
Each prowling step into the darkness.
Slowly he began to descend – a gentle
Decline moving him ever forward and
Deeper, deeper, deeper into the earth.
The skin beneath his fur began to sweat
As he sensed her, terrified… and nearby.