The Leshy
The Leshy is a vagabond,
Within the forest sphere,
Peeling back the snowy frond,
In landscapes spread austere.
Walking passes in the cold,
Between the snowscape pine,
All the haunted vale patrolled,
By rivers serpentine.
He changes as the seasons change,
Chameleonic forms,
Choosing guises bold and strange,
Phantasmal as the storms.
Now a giant in the field,
And now a feathered bird,
Creeping under moss concealed,
Or crawling with the herd.
Hearkening unto the breeze,
And sucking berries sweet,
Navigating rocks with ease,
On hairy, calloused feet.
He watches as the humans pass,
And estimates their worth,
Be they true or but a farce?
A friend or foe to earth?
And if he stands dissatisfied,
Or suffers some offence,
He’ll see his vengeance gratified,
And wreak some recompense.
Pushing people from the cliff,
Or burning them to ash,
Freezing them completely stiff,
Or prompting them to dash.
Prisoners cast in the cave,
Or tricked to go astray,
Guided to a gruesome grave,
Or quickly whisked away.
Loosing mischief with a laugh,
And using clever tricks,
Cutting bodies clean in half,
Or tripping legs with sticks.
He looses screams upon the air,
A banshee of a thing,
Raucous jibes with sudden flair,
And terror with a sting.
Voices saccharine and soft,
Then cataclysmic screams,
Echoed voices borne aloft,
Projecting o’er the streams.
His attitude a shifting sand,
A temperamental guise,
Now a kind and loving hand,
Then poison from his eyes.
A traveller was burning trees,
And laughing at his sport,
The Leshy brought him to his knees,
In bitter brambles caught.
Another tended to a bird,
With tenderness and care,
The Leshy to this man deferred,
This type of soul he’d spare.
Like a fairy or a wight,
A ghost in giant shape,
Roving taiga plains by night,
With vines a hanging drape.
He also has a heart to help,
The children scorned or hurt,
Rushing to a sorry yelp,
Their sighs in comfort girt.
Over tundra, through the snow,
A marching into ice,
On the secret paths below,
The hanging edelweiss.
Should ye pass the Russian bogs,
Or travel by his way,
With the chirrup of the frogs,
Announcing him so gay.
Take ye heed to do no wrong,
And tread with proper care,
Lest ye end a mourner’s song,
With writhing worms for hair!
adamdaniel 