The Offering.

Ever a stranger to darkness,

I steal up the gully,

following the course of the stream,

now choked with rotting leaves,

the smell of crumbling earth,

like a grave,

clogging my nostrils:

the roots of trees,

yew, rowan, birch and willow,

exposed level with my eyes.

A wren, as if emerging new-born

from the soil,

a troglodyte - an elvish spirit,

scolds me almost to tears.

The thick, palpable air

hums in my ears,

dusty sunlight is trapped and capricious.

Over-head clouds slide east

flickering like snap-shots

through silver arms of trees.

A child,

I clutch my offering:

an earth-born thing,

a totem,

a head shaped rock

with dull eyes and granite features.

I do not pay homage,

there is no reverence,

nor do I seek reassurance.

My act is organic, measured,

as natural as the trees

and smell of decay.

Approaching the womb-dark opening

where water trickles,

I feel snared,

held by invisible forces:

caught between worlds.

I leave my humble offering,

creeping back in bewilderment

through the shifting darkness,

my thoughts unsynchronised

like the clouds above.