The Passing of a Winter God.

There is a god made from snow,
Eyes like elderberries,
A crown of holly.
He stares at the fading terracotta sunset
The northern lights reflected in his vision
Twisting green silk rippling the frozen sky.
He stands sculptured and alone
Surveying his ephemeral domain
With detachment and cold clarity.
Crystal blue stars shimmer in the freezing night,
Wild excited eyes gazing down
With charted adoration, as his subjects gather
To pay homage once again.

Rosehips stain the moonlit snow
Like droplets of sacrificial blood;
The oak trees sway and creak in welcome.
A congregation of owls bow their heads
In solemn prayer, the fox releases the timid mouse
A stag drops to his knees. Redwings flutter
About their god’s head like autumn leaves.
The myth of silence stalks the barren land
Shadows of former days melting now into memory.

Then the wind loses its chill:
Winter thrushes look to Arktos +
For they are star-born, and
The stirrings of sojourning are upon them.
As the plough turns its furrow, buds
Whisper of spring, old Turpin *
Skirts the field sniffing the air.

Then the god is gone: for he is the Holly King.
Like the sun slipping from the earth’s gaze
He becomes a stark memory
Melting into time and consciousness,
Fading like an ancient rock painting
Of man depicting himself.




* Folklore name for a brown hare.
+ The constellation of the Great Bear.

A Hallowed Place

Up here on the edge
Where the clouds
Release their seeds and spore
The wind talks in tongues,
Wrapping itself about me like a greatcoat.
I hear the echoes
Of ancient tribes,
The myth of silence,
The drone of the Lancaster,
The stone groaning to be alive.

Music issues from the bejewelled earth
Larks and pipits stir the stone halls and spires
Vibrating the unfathomable sanctity
Of the place, a church built without hands.
Hymns resound in the sacredness of the landscape,
Issuing from the hallowed moor
Flint clean and polished
With the untarnished purity
Of a venerated spring.

Hollow hills release shadows,
Wraith-like mists snaking through the moss,
Witch-trees swaying, garlanded with berries
Reflected light from a hawk’s eye
Painted with the pinks and reds
Of a new dawning:
The curlew dances on the sun’s hand,
Lapwings with stars still in their wings, dream
Of a feather soft breeze,
That whispers forever freedom.