Rain splashing on metal and leather,
and running down. This camping in heather
a mistake; he had no notion whether
the storm would abate. He felt for the feather
and clutched it as he lay, remembering.
In that space was a curious curving
for near the moment, his mind went swerving
to some happier time. A method, perhaps, of preserving
sanity (all too late); he had made a vow of serving
the arts that had brought him to this hill.
Swept from black tables and made to dance—
so his master now owned him. Without a backward glance
he had entered magic’s dark waters; mere chance
that his brain in one lucid moment might advance
this truth: The ravens had been the first warning.
Inspired by We Drink Because We’re Poets Poetry Prompt #7: Complex instructions here. The short version is, line 10 from a book, rhymed into a stanza; repeat as desired. My first lines (and title) come from JONATHAN STRANGE AND MR. NORRELL, by Susanna Clarke.
Graceful Press Poetry 