Outlaws

Owls: they whinney down the night, Bats go zigzag by. Ambushed in shadow out of sight The outlaws lie. Old gods, shrunk to shadows, there In the wet woods they lurk, Greedy of human stuff to snare In webs of murk. Look up, else your eye must drown In a moving sea of black Between the tree-tops, upside down Goes the sky-track. Look up, else your feet will stray Towards that dim ambuscade, Where spider-like they catch their prey In nets of shade. For though creeds whirl away in dust, Faith fails and men forget, These aged gods of fright and lust Cling to life yet. Old gods almost dead, malign, Starved of their ancient dues, Incense and fruit, fire, blood and wine And an unclean muse. Banished to woods and a sickly moon, Shrunk to mere bogey things, Who spoke with thunder once at noon To prostrate kings. With thunder from an open sky To peasant, tyrant, priest, Bowing in fear with a dazzled eye Towards the East. Proud gods, humbled, sunk so low, Living with ghosts and ghouls, And ghosts of ghosts and last year's snow And dead toadstools.