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
