Even in dream I hear their cry,
Voices from the dark;
Voices that give shadows life.
And when the night winds blow,
I listen to their lament
In the tawny owl’s
Churchyard song.
Voices muted in mossy stones,
Or trapped in timber
Gnarled with age,
Old Treemen
Once banished to Mona’s rocky shore
Creaking on
ancient limbs.
Or in the
secret language of birds
And fish,
whose distant eyes
Stare from
sacred waters
Whose name we
dare not utter.
Along lonely
leafy paths
That twist
and turn
Through the
wildwood’s
Secret heart,
I hear their
icy voices
Lamenting,
menacing,
Threatening,
Murmuring on
the breeze.
They never
died;
Not they
To be driven
out
By mere
mortals.
Their fate
Is not ours
to hold
Like dreams
of shattered clay.
The cat of
the woods, the stag of the stubble,
He darts
among
The
glittering birch trees,
Those
enchanters
Of the dark
forest,
Who dwell in Albion ’s
Magic
sea-washed land.
He knows ,
He hears them
still,
Old Scutter,
Released from
Boudicca’s hand
To flee
Like a wild
spirit
Among the
roots and bones
Of Arthur’s
sacred isle.
Is that
breath
That stirs
the oak leaves so,
Where the
sticky white berries
Of mistletoe
Hang like
ancient tears?
Whilst high
above
On a racing
tide
Of sombre,
evening cloud,
The ravens
fly
Blacker, even
than the night
As fair
Dianna,
Our White
Goddess,
Pours down
like soma
Her pure
white light
Into
mirrored pools
Of
sparkling dew.
