An Ancient Place. (Minninglow)

I stalk the moth-wing silence like a wraith

Shadowing the footfalls of creatures

That passed this way

A life-time ago.

I investigate snapped twigs

And prints by muddy pools;

I wait for echoes to revisit

Like salmon searching upstream.

I run fingertips over rough hewn stones

For hidden runes, for sacred carvings

And pictures of the past.

I stand atop a cairn and whisper questions

To the haunted landscape,

But in return I hear only riddles.

I sense a strange breeze on my face

The silken and leathery leaves

On the gnarled and stunted beeches

Chatter and curse in ancient tongue.

There are tombs here, slabs of twisted

Limestone, crushed by time and embedded

Into the hill like doorways to a dark realm.

Shadows are caught and held firm

Sacrificed to nameless gods

Given to earth and the sanctity of silence.

I see the hare upon the hill

Divining the destiny of the landscape

And the lamented cries of skylarks and lapwings

Beyond the green pasture.

I flee this place of omens and portents

Of singing stars and raging moons,

Yet I am strangely loath

To leave this realm of fleeting shades

And return to the hum of reality.