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Back to Issue 3 - Fall/Spring 2013
The Griselbrand
Derek Purves
A horror approaches, his purpose a demand,
He graces a mound of silver, coarse like sand
glistening in moonlight; a cocoon in the winter morn,
he leaves his mark, his emblem, his brand,
grisly, ghostly, dark, and damned,
wisps of shadow, of fire and scorn,
titter across his mane; embers in his wake,
his wings spread, rancid and faded,
he beats the wind, foundations quake
atop the helvault, upon silver and hallowed ground
striding with fervor, his wrath abounds,
comes the Griselbrand, feared and hated,
his mouth, grinning and jaded
across the helvault, he makes his entrance,
reckoning and sorrow, a pact of vengeance,
he demands his children, his young, his brood,
a demand of freedom, and the innocent doomed
