Tag: prose

  • Wandering

    Photo by Kaleb Brown on Unsplash

    Wandering the daydream, with all the accompanying mists and the fey voices just out of earshot in those mists; a forest of lingering like a wraith waiting for the gloaming of nightfell — such is the path I flow.

    Weary of trying to find connection, I feel the tug of something less even than byways. And, giving in, twin feet shamble towards the briar and thorns to follow on the stones to sacrifice of both eyes. The words are liars, near all, so we toss them to the underbrush and let them return to mud.

    This is my lonely and I feel possessive of it in the way the chill of fresh-fallen snow stings skin to pleasure as two bare hands mould it into shape. I do not think I can share it, and I would never dare to give it away. It is far too precious.

    Turn away, just as the guitar peals the last banshee cries into night. We are like as not, unforgiven.

  • Barrow

    Photo by Dana on Unsplash

    We are already of the barrow.

    A turn of the chamber followed the roar of the gun is all that divides. Or the obsidian’s edge, if you prefer, for that line is silent and cuts the threads fine. Or that final chest rattle in the nadir of night, while kin look on.

    Gasping revenants clutching at vapors threading their path through the mists and ways, our hands wither to dust. And for what? The illusion of the infinite when we are but dirt and dust.

    We color ourselves with the shadow of our own ash gathered from down there, in the pit. Try to give ourselves light from the shadow, by way of contrast. But few seem to see.

    We are already of the barrow.

  • For you

    Photo by Adarsh Kummur on Unsplash

    You’ll find me at moorwanders, following smalltrails and playing at touchstone for the only thing that is real. Here, elder ways draw to base: flame crosses chill, rain mists slick the stone, and the growl of winds between the ways. Here, the animals sing underhill, a call to slumber.

    I know you tire at the mention of Raven, but they are here too.

    The best magic is that which seems not to be magic at all, and it lingers here like it did in the old, doing a lot of nothing much at all: wind waves barley, skies trading slate for blue and then back again, small birds ducking in and out of the tall grass and the lone tree upon the hill. Them, big oak and me as all acorn, resting underneath and waiting.

    For what? you ask.

    Well, if you must need know… for you.

  • Thunder coming

    red lightning flashing on black sky
    Photo by Martinus on Pexels.com

    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.

  • These birch

    a rocky river between trees on mountain
    Photo by John Stirzaker on Pexels.com

    These birch at the riverbank, boulder-fractured of growth resting bottom of the mountain scree — they are me. Standing defiant, I insist on being though stone pushes and gravities are drawn, I drink strength of river.

    Granite sings, should you open your eyes to listen. I can tune my growth to their song. I am woman, that pale goddess. And I insist you try.

    Gathering of breath from wind, from rain, my arms have set to wave. For I bend, not break under the song of the heart. You would too, if only you could see.