Now
follows the dark time,
grey
stones, night’s chill falling,
owls,
flower-faced, calling
winter
and old friends
As
wind gathers, rustling
dry
dead flowers from heather,
rattling
broom-seeds; shifting
now,
between the worlds, wait,
between
year and season,
between
known and unknown,
turnings,
change, year’s end.
Harvest
made, we gather,
shape
and sort, assemble
sift
tales of our season
spun
from joy or sadness
crafting
song and legend
stories
to attend
On
the cairn, leaves new-spread,
new-dead,
over long-dead
bones
in barrow bearing
stories
of the years past
living
tales and sped
Our
deeds, their rememberings,
merging
here, our beings,
self
or legend; lives turn,
seed
to earth our year’s work
wait
the new year’s growing,
join
our hopes ahead
So,
now, comes the wanderer,
worlds-walking,
by barrow,
stone,
or stream, or city
hearing
song and story
hoarding
deed and meaning
words
that lie in wyrd
(© J Blain, 2005)
