Leech Evening at Lamington
The mist has moth feet, but the rain entices
nibs, fine filaments, black butter knobs, reaching,
breaking the drenched soil with long tongues.
After the moss rain, and the lichen rain
paints maiden hair over grim rivulet branches,
they are by millimetres, massing and climbing,
tickling the undergrowth like the ripe of a corpse.
There is no clutch of fur in the crowded forest
that can ember a moment of this hunger,
visceral and definite, direct like the ache of an ending,
they are marching to our campfires, here on the mountain.
They are trying with the hunger of soft things, to get warm.