The Mad River | Poetry

WILD is the WAY

A society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in

Photo by Aleksandra Kovacic on Unsplash

Ye olde gods of the greenlands have gone to ground, raging, burning forests all around, your acolytes burnt alive, stretched upon the rack, hung, cruelly drowned.

For century after century — druids who know the true oak tree — were found only in histories, myths, tales. Come, walk with me in this freezing mist of a deep-winter’s night — don’t get squeamish, don’t take fright.

Kissed by the sky and the moon’s milky light: shadowing the yew trees and the wild oaks, see with me the holly and the ivy and the mistletoe in sacred groves. The living dead speak to thee.

Dew’Featha, O Queen of t’Wood, whispers her songs so deep in my blood as she dances with winter at the end of a rhyme, and settles in frost as church bells chime.

She’s leading us into the heart of the wood, moving with elegance as a true Queen should. She’s whirling her feet to echo my fluttered heart’s beat.

We’re close to the secrets that grew from the roots and are planted in minds and are played on the flutes, where the spirits of trees tumble and freeze as we sing our laments at the end of the day, whispering stories that don’t fade away.

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