Wild Wood.
Far from speechless within the Moor.
Tortured,
Twisted, dressed in rags, the Ghost of our ancestors stand.
From
holy seed, once borne upon and ancient wind.
A
promise faintly whispered, far beyond the haunted dreams of Abraham's
fated son.
This
treasured truth does stand as like and yet within the moss covered
stones,
when
all else does seem as futile noise,
falling
amongst the bitter dust of civilisation's angry grasp.
Sweet
honeyed scent, soft and warm descends from the high Tor.
Flowing
Blood and bone washes into the wood,
standing
tall Oak, Ash and Thorn stretch to take it all.
An
Arboreal sigh, welcome relief, a deeper breath and a remembered
thought.
The
Granite Giants shift themselves as memory stirs,
they
rise and turn with the fond recall of lives never to be forgotten,
Ancestral
voices raised in triumph .
Gently
I walk, within the footsteps of the wise amongst the hidden paths.
I
glimpse the shade of a white hare, I hear the song of the wish hounds
pushing me further.
My
soul grasps at the rock, reaches deep into the loam, I am anchored to
this place, rooted.
Lost
in the wilderness, I am home,
foundling
far beyond your space and time, one with all that matters still.
It
is I who would haunt this wood, I that would sing the song of fear.
It
is I who would hunt the weary traveller and draw him to his doom.
For
I am the eyes that follow you, the noise that makes your heart leap.
Foe,
Fiend or friend, what would you have me be.
For
I am at one with the wild wood
As
for yourselves, who knows ?
