Reaper

Cold his breath, and stale

The Reaper stooping low,

‘High executioner standing o’er my bed

‘tis not my time to go.’

‘’Tis not thee that I come for,’ he said sarcastically,

caressed the blade and motioned

to the sleeper next to me.

The moon was up and in its light

all forms looked deathly white.

‘Be thee not so daring, Death

To enter here this night.

‘Take thy scythe and sickly stench…’

I rose up with a shout,

‘find some other corn to cut.

This sand has not run out.’

I turned back to my slumber

The Reaper watching me

as if unsatisfied at missed opportunity.

Once more he lifted up the blade

to make intentions clear

but laughter at a half- remembered joke

fell upon his ear.

The sleeper grinning from the dream,

The Reaper looking on

about him pulled his rancid cloak

and then alone was gone.