Since I previously said I was going to be a bit brave and post a few more of my poems, here is another one, written not long before Yuletide.
Within the Winter Wood
Hedge crones crouch,
hagthorn and red berry,
and the frozen sun above.
The dust of a thousand mountains underfoot,
testament to time’s passage,
the slow decay of years.
The sun sets ever earlier,
night claiming the victory, and yet
I find solace in the darkness, moon cast,
star lit, garbed in wild woods
and looming shadows.
North wind plays twig music, bone music,
rattling questions through bare branches, as the Yew,
garbed in solitary reverie, declines to answer,
leaving me to riddle things for myself.
I nestle, boulder like, clad in moss and memory,
heart like hearth fire,
soul sleeping, and yet
wakeful as Persephone in the Underworld,
slow moving as the setting sun,
garnering wisdom in its wake,
feather and bone, root and stone,
with the spiralling wind burying all
within the winter wood.