By GP Hyde

Through scudding clouds, the great black bird’s descent
to earth comes softly, gently, through the bleakest night.
It lands and walks so nimbly, no waddling here, and bends
A claw as if to bow to me as I stand terrified in my plight.
The lightning flashes, thunder rolls and it becomes
A man, a mighty prince of Hell. ‘Lord Caim am I’,
he does declaim in tones which strike me dumb,
transfix me to the spot with fears that I might die.
His jade green eyes probe into mine.
His words come soft: ‘Present to me,’ he says,
‘Three questions which I will answer before the morning
breaks into a clutch of red raw glimmering rays.’
Not three but a hundred questions crowd into my brain.
But how to ask? He’s gone until he comes again.