crack hands old oak
wrapped around my love
i hollow the heartwood
until she slips inside
she comes the winter
she comes the night
she comes the winternight
pinpricks my body torn
needles dance my arms
we sickle under midmoon
white kissed before we're born
she comes the winter
she comes the night
she comes winternight
wayfinding the fair
following the blood she
leaves for dolmen stones
to mark her where
for come november
when lovers lie claimed
entwined in her river flow
'til whispers call to wander
the burning fields won
under the forests below
i understone unturned
waiting for a barleymaid
to fingerpry tendril me free
an echo lingers at chasms
a ghosting at my ears
sweet autumn, her song
calling the long night down
i understone and waiting
for gentle fingers to
slender prise me free.
slipping blackthorn,
back to the gloam
to step out for a smoke
no kinsfolk, this wyrding
only feather & loam
only shadow & stone
i have gone lost
down the bones
etched at kohl
in following many
elder ways to a place
called shadow
she is beyond name &
speaks in fingers
under the canopy green
skin earthstained red
waiting for maple
to bleed
seeking a stop making sense
to snail ride a razor’s edge
staccato clipped my words trip
under themselves again
these old ones do not care
for your piety, no
they want to embrace storm
clacking bones trice
can you hear gates?
we glide fields
wend the trees
crest the tor and
stretch wide mouths
to sing
this unpeopling
of ourselves celebrates
forest fires burning
inside our chests,
shriven
without names
these nature gods
shove hours aside
giving all to
heartwood
shed the wire
marking barbed against
soft flesh
and fly…
as we draw speechless
under growing hallows
full moon and mistletoe
summer gives to autumn
ol' john, he sentinels
green still in the barley
hiding us our shadow
away until the dawn
darning fingers cast weaves
for october is our song...
Thunder the skies drum to rumble and many ears blind to the coming storm, yet calling some home to wrap themselves under both cloak and shield. Come the mists that deaden sight but for those with the spears driven to pierce.
We cast to birch, cleave to stones rising grey in undergrowth. Her rasp cuts the winds as she calls forth. Children! Children, come in!
Let the hunters flail; they are not our kin. Let them blindstep the pathways, missing us, their quarry, just beyond the thin.
