“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.