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.
circling threes from trees
birch white paper of black
calling out his name
from the wending ways
a warden in the weald
we are flight we are free
bending skies to our own
shaking wood, twisting stone
to lay alone of earthwomb
wrapped in fevers
a fragment found.
a key —
head tilt and a shout,
a return to north winds
It is more clear than ever that most cannot understand my sometimes, those veilgliding moments on betweens — this river of mine of many dreams that flows within. Come to rest within the hollows and eddies spinning and turning with me and you might see how I see. And then, you may ask yourself…
In a flurry of down and feather I came to rest. There she is, the I that was. There he is, the I that will. Onyx eyes wander the memory wastelands, sipping at an oasis of color; a little here, a little there. I am so many. And they all want to talk, some just more silent in their speech than others.
If only one person understood the sometimes… But the thin places are only rarely found.
Dark eyes haunting the wrinkled silver of dust-etched mirrors, they are the ghosts that trail behind like scarlet ribbons on mountain winds as the snow drifts over age-worn cairns.