OAK MOON

 

Her Voice rang as a half-uttered spell

along the brume-haunted river,

freezing the ink in my well,

staying my bedevilled fingers

in mid-phrase.

A weaver of tales journeyed forth

to the place of long shadows

and quieter winds where ancient magic

lingers and the lonely capstone sings.

An unstruck Drum sounded

over snowy barrows past the wizened

henge into where the

Cold Moon glinted in the arms

of a skeleton Ash haloed in darkling flint,

more shade than shape,

yet glowing fuller, a richer endowment

of keener purpose than Summer’s

urgent verdant fury.

Amid such barren beauty as wounds

the heart and mists the eye,

where ghost oaks gather at Time’s own

seasonless Portal,

Presence dimmed, displacing the Soul

as though giving it anew

unto the Circle from Eternity’s ocean

or on the threshold of a new Order

yet unveiled to Being.

A node upon the path ablaze with ice

and pearl called to the blood

that knows a primal space

of certain unknowing and euphoric doubt

where the breathless air revels

in yearning for stories implied and

verges half-perceived.

Every cell opens in sublime awe

to the light or darkness of the Moment;

Life does not ask whence

or whither, but seeks forgotten echoes

within folds and between layers

of the Land’s memories,

the keepers of the Key to the pulse

of our natal Moment

that sates the Spirit with questions

as it communes with unseen tides beneath

a Sky that hangs

as a meditation on staves.

In the centremost atom 

of blessed Lostness, I shall grow

beyond the sureness and succour 

of my roots and branches

till I feel stars thrum in my core.

 

© 2021 Lilium Candidum

Lily’s Verse

 

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