“Trunk”

i heard you in the thunder,
wolf, tree top, empty field.

we marked the bark with knives,
jagged lines turned to meaning:

you told me druids mixed salt
and blood, in places like this.

Advertisements

“Indifferent Isles”

these shores have met many ships,
bearing men and women of all walks:
the soldier weighted with metal-memory,
the farmer fleeing continental conflict,
the cross-men clasping golden idols,
the reaver in his longship laden,
the roman with her pointed spear:
Gods have died on these shores,
alongside the celt and the saxon,
the angle, and the norman; all swept
by wind through the broken trees
back to the coasts that once welcomed
indifferently.

“Bloodied Roots”

beneath black boughs
drinking in sun and rain,
we bled ourselves
among the roots.

wind ran through valleys,
catching dead leaves
and dead men – it screamed
through lives lost and lived.

our Gods dined on blood and salt,
freely spilt and freely given –
they sheltered us, hinted at unknowables
and watched while we were cut down.

“The Valley Fled”

the valley fled from the thought of us
unimpeded by the wind or rocks,
axes brought to bear against trunks
and arrows notched at old souls,
curious in their repose at new faces
contorted with emotions they couldn’t
understand or know – the rage
of an unenlightened world.

“The Valley”

We swept through the valley like wind
rustling over undergrowth and roots,
drinking our fill of air and life and love.

we found that grove of trees,
heard those voices older than words,
felt faces in the bark and salt
on the floor – blood was spilt
long ago, here, for Gods long gone.

once, they’d stood together
on roots drunk with life
once, they’d stood together
against a legion’s love
once, they’d lay together
amidst the burning trees.

from that grove a new emerges,
godless, born of salt and blood
and song: the song’s of bards
born before the wall could crumble.

we found that grove, and many others:
we found and we remember
what chants lived in these boughs,
and what God’s died in them.