The Old Beech

The wild wood reaches out,

Long twisted arms of ancient oak,

Waving branches of young birch,

Rustling and sighing throughout

The fields of living grass.

Its' eldritch shadow twists and turns,

Painting jagged silhouettes

Over rugged, untrodden meadow.

A single beech stands erect

And ancient, tall in its years,

wide in its shadow circled round.

No bird, no squirrel or woodland

Creature disturbs its peace -

Just the breeze rustling angry leaves.

The Wild Wood beckons – its ancient call

Loud and omnipresent, its reach extending

As shadows lengthen, and Twilight creeps.

Well-worn tracks filled with stone

Lead off into darkness cracked

by light amongst weaving branches.

Coldness and damp seep from the earth,

And the wood closes its doors over the path.

All is still – grave-quiet and black.

No wind, no birdsong, no rustling.

Twisting and turning the way bends

This way and that, confusing the senses,

lost in shadows, in dark trees, in thought,

Winding slowly upwards on some unseen hill,

As if purposefully leading to somewhere,

A hidden spot, an unseen glade,

Somewhere of light amidst darkness,

Underneath the bare-seen Moon.

Creeping darkness deepens dimly

Foreshadowing the deepest dark.

Temple-like, a hidden circle

Stands beneath the canopy

Of an even older Beech, its

Spreading arms each a tree-trunk

Pointing the way to the four corners,

Its mountainous crown upheld

By legs that have withstood

The centuries, its unseen eyes

A thousand lives have watched

As man and woman have passed

Out of sight, sound but not memory.

And, oh! The terrors that

It has been forced to witness,

Its unwilling judgement untold.

Yet it stands not unaffected

By the darkness around it.

Years of elder torment, called

Upon and reinforced by men

In whom the darkness has taken

Long, deep roots, call forth

The fore-boding as the circle round

Tries to retain its quiet brood.

A song of light begins quavering

Amidst the throng of pressing dark,

Gathering strength as the fire slowly burns -

Pushing back the seeping gloom.

The circle of hatred expands and thins,

But the song has not gone unheard.

An ancient Terror dwelling deep

In the blood-soaked earth hears the call.

In anger, it bellows and rushes to the fray.

The song wavers but durst not die

Lest the light be quenched and

Darkness return - forever claiming

This corner of twisted, faerie realm.

In battle are joined – gloom and doom,

Unbidden are rising like angry embers,

Exhaustion is imminent, one life against many

But then, unseen amongst hidden trees,

Hidden in darkness beyond the edge,

A white Stag, ancient and proud

Lifts its quivering muzzle, tosses

its branching antlers and lifts its head,

Eyes dark with aeons-old wisdom,

And bellows the song of life,

Joining the song of light and

Breaking the hold of the Ancient One.

The Terror flees deep within the earth,

And the guardian gloom is broken,

bound and tied.

One small step to free the ancient Beech,

A gleam of hope for future cleansing.

Deepest tiredness sags and weighs down

But the Moon riding high sends rays

Of sheerest healing deep within the soul.

It has left a scar – but not one unhealed.

Slán

Silverwolf
http://gateway.batcave.net