Marching t’ward a cavern, wide, warm as a womb,
a gigantic form, huddled shadow, on to the tomb

of ageless igneous; embers rising, with a snicker,
crackle as calfskin is spit-turned; spoiled wild wine,
honey, poached, and ogre broth on the boil,

brutish to the bubble; wolf-hide, brambled beard,
dishevelled, to the navel, towering over tree tops,
a horizon closing to its covert mystery;

a rusted flail slung with a slump; pipe smoke supped,
seeking a divinity in a dire, perilous, ghastly dusk.