I walk amongst the trees

deeply into darkness

I step

across pine needles

deeply I step

 

Further from the chatter

of man

further from the rattle

of machine

further from the clatter

of cites

and towns

villages and house

 

Deeper I travel

deeper I lose myself

in this far place

of towering green

deeply in the forest

I step

 

Where tales are told

where Baba Yaga

eats children and carves bones

where paths criss cross

wolf tracks and wood cutter axes

 

Back in mind out of time

here and now

In the forest

deeply dreamed

dreamed ripe and rich

 

I walk amongst the trees

my skin all green

with eyes hazel

shining back the light

of moon and stars

through branches

bouncing back of streams

 

Whist spider webs hang

decorated with flies

and droplets of dew

 

O deep in the forest

hidden from the

every day mind

I walk

my hair falls flaxen

as woven vines

jewelled with red berries

my body clad in

furs and flowers

so soft and scented

of spring and summer

 

In the forest I walk

whist Pan pipes the echoes

of my soul.

 

Heroes die heroically

though sometimes its

tragic

Nearly always it's a waste

 

Hot blood on cold sand

old men's reflections

on their young champions

death

 

Medals of gallantry

glasses raised

toasts given

but reality

chimes

spilt guts

tears of fear

lonely cries for

your mother

 

Let's rise a glass

To our dead heroes

though maybe

it would be wiser

to cures the fools

who sent them

to their doom

 

Only to add

valour to their own

 egos

flaccid politicians

hunting for power

with the blood

of our boys

where's the valour

in that

 

I drain my glass  

 

What magic

did we kill

in our passing

to be here

 

What dreams

that were true

have been lost

in our rush

 

What metaphorical

tails were true

what fairy tales

were real

 

What happened

to the knowledge

of our hearts

the understanding

of our souls

 

What magic

did we kill

in our passing

to be here

 

How lost have

we become

and what became

of what we

lost

 

How hard have

our minds become

so over grown

with our knowing

 

So sure in

our knowing

that we know

not that we

know so little

 

What magic

did we kill

in our passing

to be here

 

That only in

the story given

to our children

do exists the

echos of our past

 

the silent cry

of magic wanting

to be herd

 

lend an ear

if you will it

to be different

 

Blood vessels

streams through heartbreak

synapses crackle

sparking electric dreams

murals flicker

with the eyes scraped clean

out of female apostles

hidden in rock hewed

churches in hill and mountain

 

A patriarchal fear

crushingly cast

for nearly two thousand years

has remained everybody's

staple supper

a monumental veil

that has obscured

man sights of the other

our female sisters

 

The religious cloth

has been woven

and cut to fit inappropriately  

to rest on only one set

of humanities shoulders

 

The tears

for this patriarchal crime

could not be wept

for all the eyes

in all the hidden shrines

have been scratched

out

 

Yet today we have back

this knowledge

as a balm with which

to heal back all

our futures sight.