Griffon

They romp
surprisingly lithe
behind the fence
on Parliament Hill
beneath lead violet skies
crackling with dull lightning.
From Wellington Street's sidewalk
I peer through
Victorian ironwork
black with acid rain.
I search their masses
for a specific griffon.
A small one
comes close,
something troubling
its inscrutable eyes
and reaches
through the bars
with a long delicate claw
catches
my wrist
pulls me gently
close enough
to taste
its burnt metal breath
to stare
into her hot copper eyes.
When I look deep
I can see
all the way back
to Byzantium.