The green myth of me is built on granite
Picture me as a landscape, green strata over deep brown earth
that's rich with peat, the colour of seeped tannins
steeped in rainwater that has become a rich broth, a fragrant tea
puddling, overflowing, spilling into pools and loughs
that become the earth's bright grey eyes reflecting low lidded skies,
sun and clouds journey across them mapping my existence.
The land of my birth has always forged steadfast folk,
able to withstand and keep on withstanding
with solid granite hearts - not hardened, but steady as rock.
Above, there's the layers of life and movement - a ripple of grasses,
wildflowers, rushes, reeds that rustle in the wind,
that whisper spring's arrival on water meadow edges,
sing summer's songs, sigh autumn laments, chant winter prayers.
Whether it's along mountain trails or across sandy dunes
the same spirit moves, cutting to the centre, the core.
Willows bend without breaking, and the spines of woodlands
are braced by ancient bog oak and blackthorn boughs.
My land's a canvas carved from rock by weather and water,
green foliage the paint, markings made by fish, fowl and beast.
The tellers of stories and myths here must weave their tales
where humans and gods take animal forms to shape the stories
of love, war, tragedy and truth. My own telling is never
the same twice, layers of meaning peeling back and back,
getting to bedrock, the true granite heart of me.
Vigil
Hidden folds in blue hills hold glens where sweet pure water springs from the rocks and dark pools form to reflect the sky, to capture the journey of sun, moon, stars. Here the land drinks in time and history, and not just a little green magic.
The crow watches, ordinary and majestic. There's something other about his caws, like an unexpected deep rumble of thunder from a clear sky. His wings wrap him like a cloak. They could almost span the whole night once he's in flight, spreading midnight-indigo ink, turning daytime hues to grisaille, bewitching all in the witching hour. Bright eyes pierce with a complex look, head tipped briefly to one side. Old knowledge is buried there.
I see you, he seems to say. I can peer deep into your soul. I will divine your story. It will tell the tale of this place, an ancestral song rich with growth and seasons, of life that waxes and then must wane.
The crow embodies this land. He's carried aloft by its natural spells, drawn from the deep down power of stone strata, distilled from wooded copses, the slender strength of willow and beech, as the forest exhales its nature notes, ancient with life's rhythms.
[Previously published on The Winged Moon's Substack newsletter, 24 July 2024]
Elemental Baptism
It's a baptism of fire, they said,
those women with their work-worn hands
as they toiled over the cooking pot, fashioning
food, victuals, stirring tinctures, dyes,
making clay pots and smithing metal tools.
It's a baptism of water, the cleansing
splashing, plashing flow of rivers, rain, tears,
the wash of it that purifies the spirit
and forms the basis of life, too much or too little
each a kind of curse - that's its inner magic.
It's a baptism of earth, as the family women
plant and grow, sow and harvest,
reaping crops that yield needed resources,
mixing woad, lichen and nettle juice for stains
working wool and wood with earthen colours.
It's a baptism of air, birthing the next generation
gasping, wheezing into the world with a cry,
women rearing the children, teaching, imbuing them
with the breath of survival and life, so they thrive -
so that they can keep the legacy going.
Shaman
for Luristan Bronze Horse Bit Cheekpiece, c. 700 BCE
the secret to channelling
all that power
is to be in the right place
in your mind
to let the magic flow
ibex horns on my head
torc round neck
the griffins pour their chi
through my core
we make a mighty totem
[previously published in The Ekphrastic Review, 9 September 2022]
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