Thinning World

In the long and lonely pines
I found the thrum of a heartstring
beating on the branches that were
bending in the wind. I plucked it out
on thin and gossamer webs, strung
it out cross trees and paths, strewn with
gold and green confetti, the woodland’s
decorations for a dying year. I danced
and stalked and sang and walked
and found the earth damp and willing
under my feet. I found the water well
and chilling and lapping at our meet.
I found the Viking grim and grinning and
wishing to dance with the sweet and
fragrant moonlight that was spilling,
round and puddling at our feet.
I long to be in the land ripe with gold,
yet I cry for quiet forrest morning too.
To play god and goddess together in
the rod and the goodness and sparkling
dew. And the grey is swelling, pregnant
with the tears that will shower the dying
world and cloak it with deep, velvet
sleeping–the night in darkness and the
Shining Sickle gleaming and reaping.


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