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.