Sonnet for a Dragon
Written by Nico Horton
From tales told by mountains as they awake,
He is born under flames and skies long dead
Where wind is never ceasing and clouds quake
With breath like a shrike, then quicken to dread;
Soon comes his wrath and wisdom deep as wells,
Pretty gold pocketed under his fire,
And administers wreck to citadels,
Where he is the sister to humans’ ire,
But makes his bed far on hills of treasure,
At night tearing the furthest stars with songs
Older than stone, and makes with them measures
All cleaving as crescents, lasting too long;
On waning moons, his wings move to bedim,
There I cry, that I yearn to fly with him.