The Sacred

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Come child, your arms request.

Your entreaties calling me through time.

Along hallowed halls of dripping stone.

Where smoke hath told its stories kept.

Cathedral before cathedrals were.

Tempests prompt, sinews stretch.

Scorching licking tidal bores,

Cool to reach the tribal drum.

To reach rock and vines; those fisted flails.

To hold all echoes in just one hand.

Show to the heavens – my throat laid bare.

Then swallow the dormant seeds of them.

To harvest, winnow, feed liminality; I certainly must not drift.

For there, the clutching bog moss lies, beetles bold within its kingdom.

Orchids fragrant, spike and tear, colours bright as wine.

Strawberry gems stud grass and emerald ferns.

Belly round and taut, broc retires grumpy to his den,

Compelled by Father Frost and powerless stunted rays.

While steaming deer in misty heathered hollows hunker,

Alert. Ready. They chew the cud of ancient lore.

For the uncouth trail along the treeline.

Reveals the morbid approach of stealthy cunning.

And so transformation through careful casted bronze,

To rippling pelts beneath skies once laughing blue.

To bones on rocks sucked clean of marrow, antlers trinkets, bartered, worn.

To fat rendered, meat preserved, liver gifted, heart devoured.

The seasons MUST be honoured by all, whether tribute be harsh or not.

And you Escarpment, oversee all that which you shall never partake.

Locked in quiet deceiving sleep, ignored by many but not all.

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