Toothy Wraiths

Everywhere in peaty, damp, moorland air

Are the stinging, stabbing wraiths of summer
They come sideways in all the shaded idylls
There is no escape, no sweet spot of calm
Where they cannot penetrate and attack
To back, ankle, calf and cuff they cling
Siphoning off the precious blood in irony
To form the basis of the next annual horde
And being how I am over the years that pass
It has probably sharpened their fangs more