The Hidden Brook
Dragonflies flit across the surface of the stream,
wings white, iridescent, caught in sunlight.
Unseen spirits perch there, riding over flowing water.
On the surface, strands of green hair
float on the fast-flowing currents.
Water nymphs clutch autumn leaves
to drop over the foaming weir.
Golden kingcups line the green banks,
homes to furry bumble bees,
while tight balls of fragile gnats,
rise and fall above the eddies.
A sudden rainbow flash among the willows,
a kingfisher breaks the surface of the mill pond.
Water spirits wait with nets of gossamer
to trap tiny fish which gleam like silver
in the shadow of the ferny banks.
As the pale moon wanes in a primrose dawn,
the mysterious and magical vanish.
So begins the mortals’ day.
The Power of Witches
Witches steal the milk from cattle,
shapeshift into brown hares.
In the hidden witches’ garden
grow pink foxglove fingers,
yellow clumps of spindly ragwort,
deadly to man or beast.
Witches ride in the Wild Hunt
high in inky darkness,
they form dark silhouettes
across the face of the harvest moon.
In elder trees they hide,
under the spiked blackthorn,
among monkshood and aconitum.
They gather green Death Caps
and Destroying Angel,
mixing strange concoctions,
bringing certain death and gloom.
Yellow and red flames
consumed them once.
Yet in the darkness of the pinewood,
in that other land under the hill,
they survive, to curse or cure us still.
Out of Darkness
Dry, wrinkled seeds, tiny generators
of floral continents, orders, families,
classes, species, colours, shades.
Soaked in water, traditional baptism,
new life, rebirth of ancient patterns.
Buried in earth, a place not of nightmare
but of gestation and ripening.
A white tap root feels its way
through peaty darkness,
waved on, applauded by long dead
mosses, sedge, sunken bushes
compressed, pressed into new parenting.
Threads of life run through
the crumbling blackness
Roots multiply,
tributaries, distributaries,
burgeoning families.
Even the rose
is born
in darkness.
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