belated seasonal(?) poetry

Somehow, the stories had it right-- they told
us all along that dragons' blood would burn;
that clumsy thieves might find, instead of gold,
too-swift dark coils to crush them, rise, and turn
in wheeling eddies, spreading plumes of smoke.
How did we know this? All the dragons died
so long ago, killed in a single stroke:
bright metal with a rainbow's name, inside
a star that fell into the sea... not far
from where their ancient vengeance now boils out,
engulfing waves in iridescent tar
beyond all reach of warnings or of doubt.
Let sleeping dragons' bones lie in the mud--
their vengeful ghosts can drown us in their blood.