Moon.

Woodlands dormant urcheon, buried asunder weed and wall
Crackly, prickled hermit, weary from the Spring's hard toil

Garbage graveyard grit and smear
No life-source, crust or crumb a-near.

To a burnt out hollow, soot and mildew in the bowel
Intestinal passageways underground, wolverine's ill-mannered scowl.
Groping for the glinting berry,
Hushed by the squatter's husky breath of sherry.

Ashes smoulder on the mount,
Icy dribbles and flakes overwhelm the fount
Mud-lands bubble a fiery brew
Oft the mountain goats grassy stew.

(Ergh, this has no steady rhythm and it doesn't flow, but it exists nonetheless. Like every other less-than-perfect thing).