by Nick Gisburne
Anarchic tribal dancers brave the storm,
Disgusting garlands wrapped around their necks.
The patterns of their footsteps twist to form
A pathway to the crippled haruspex.
His rotten smile, the vomit-speckled chin,
Belie the noble nature of his rank,
And as he plucks a broken violin
He points to where the sacred entrails sank.
The signs and omens only he can read,
Delivered by the spirits of the slain,
Are whispered to the audience at speed,
A marvel only magic can explain:
“The gods decree the skies will overflow,
So wear your woolly mittens. Could be snow.”
