Sunday, April 15, 2012

Looking for Legends in a New Land

…and the warm, abraded earth
has secrets trodden into it
by soft-pad creatures;

stories danced by fire light
to keep the star-cold night at bay;

pictures heard in trickled sand
and when the wind played Vandal 
no-one moved.
That was the point, you see.

I place my feet aligned to ancient bearings;
walk the song set down by feathered soles.

Old gods reach out to write their laws
on vellum stripped from paperbarks,
then sweep away their footprints
with heavy hanks of she-oak.

One or two among the poets
recognise that these are sacred,
give up their dreams of oak and beech
and pale-eyed wolf.
Let themselves be led by dingo spoor
to something altogether older.

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