BOSCH NOCTURNE

A very Low Countries hell:
kingdom of the pipistrelle
and nightjar, and above all
the harrying watchful owl.
A city burns at her call:
buckets rattle in the well
as people panic, dogs howl
and midnight in a nutshell
rides the storm. And as tanks roll
over the plain, and bombs fall
out of a black sky, we swirl
the bowl of mayhem, fettle
our demons, and drink our fill
of the filth. As our hearts fail.