i have seen this well in the wood, long ago
my dreams are hid in its moss covered walls
treasures I secretly left there before
its slippery sides plunge down to dark depths
where water is constantly dripping
drip, drip, dripping,
into my thoughts
aware of the trees leaning over
dropping their leaves into the pool
hanging over the side,
feeling the coolness,
i drop in a pebble and wait
long falling before an echo
this well is old and deep
he wanders free in the wild wood
naked,
the glance of his eye a green sunbeam
filtered through ancient branches
his sigh a shimmer of leaves
he wanders alone in the wild wood
bringing the violent storm
and spinning the whirlwind leaves
he throws branches to the ground
to be gathered for fire and home
he wanders entranced in the wild wood
naked, he walks the paths of the deer,
those secret paths that are not to be found
unless you have eyes to see
the magic that shelters in trees
he wanders free in the wild wood
smeared in musk and honey
rabbits twitch their ears and suddenly run
you know you are watched
by the tingling of your spine
his feet buried in roots
his head circled by hawks
he is dangerous, terrible, beautiful
heady as wine, drunk on the sap of life
he is around the next turn and the last
they are not far away, they are near
the old gods cry out to us
from beneath city streets
come closer, if you would hear
the moon is hidden in daylight
waiting to light the path of the night
in silvery tones and pearl
come closer, if you would hear
the trees whisper a constant prayer
the voice of the leaves, the dance of the branch
the breath of exchange that holds us all
come closer, if you would hear
the rivers run out, the veins of all life
the clouds pour down a blessing
the sea is the constantly beating heart
come closer, if you would hear
above the rooftops venus shines
the daidem, a star, entwined in her twilight hair
she sings the song of the life spark and the long dark
come closer, if you would hear
they are not far away, they are always here
the world is a garden for which we must care
before the old gods slip silent away
come closer, if you would hear
there was no need of explanations
when all was accepted and understood
sunlight filled the clearing
a path of soft grass
lead through the wood
the rapids on the river
a source of delight,
exhilaration, excitement
the boat spinning and whirling
a reason for laughter
as we clung closer
what cared we for danger
when in evening we returned
to sit warmly wrapped
at the fireside, together
the paths have become hidden
overgrown with bramble and thorn
twisting back on themselves
the Prince in the fairytale
hacks with his sword
to find his way through
to the sleeping Princess
who waits alone, for a kiss,
only a kiss and a promise,
in stories he is never exhausted
you don’t hear tales of his scars
he always succeeds
what a miracle worker he is
what a wonder to behold
astride his white horse
shining in silver armour
despite the darkness
there is a path where the rich scent
of old fallen leaves fills the air
the banks of this path are cut deeply
amongst the roots of the ancient trees
they hold the path, embraced,
they are not there to trip us
but to keep the way open ahead
the road is old and worn
the wood is dark with threatening trees
every time i look they are closer
though i never see them moving
i have been trying to find the path now
for a long lonely week or longer
i lost count of all time and direction
if the breadcrumbs we dropped ever existed
they are not to be found any where now
eaten by hungry birds for survival
does the witch of the wood really exist
she may have been killed long long ago
or is her house in the next clearing
is the cage baited with sweet delights
is the clang of the trap waiting ready
are her fires well stoked for the roasting
in the dark i stumble over ancient roots
twigs snatch at my hair like gnarled fingers
in darkness there is only despair
Hollow
Above the frozen water meadow winter sunlight flashes
frail birches stand in line, a guard against the traffic,
their silvered arms outstretched above the dying rushes.
Icy wind blows bitter from the east, fills my eyes with tears.
The trees, in faint whisper, sighing, leaning,
speak of vanished woodlands they will never know
Far away, in the West, two hundred miles and more,
a brook bubbles, dancing, sings in a hidden hollow.
Twisted oaks, clothed in moss and lichen, entwined with ivy,
born of wilful acorns, rooted in ancient rock, remain undaunted.
From dawn to dusk, the air is full of bird song until the owl hoots.
Peace surrounds, enfolds, and, with night, bewitches.
I stand on this path at the side of the road
gaze at the birch trees, the sunset spread behind them.
This place is so empty.
The Dreaming Path 