Clay Gods

We were the sprites of Nettle Wood
And we left no footprints,
No broken twigs,
No paths through flowers,
The sorrel and anemone,
No footprints
In the cobweb grass:
We were Pan’s children,
Children of the dew.

The spring was ochre-stained
And sacred to us.
The thin trickle
Of orange water
Stained our thoughts,
Earth’s blood seeping
From a wound in time.

Our eager fingers
Parted the jewelled celandine
And sank into
The soft grey flesh
To the inner sanctum
Of birth and creation

Rendering the venerable earth
To idols and craven gods;
For we moulded the clay
Into figures, hollow-eyed,
Squat and grotesque
And placed them about the spring
As guardians of the Otherworld.