Mists of stone

Mists of stone

Clear in the arc

Of light,

Artic light, enduring

Mystery

Through the dark,

Years of dark.

Buried, the lost bones

Of a bleak history,

Along with the ghostly groans

Of the dragon.

Dark.

A snowflake

Falls.

The wind calls,

Yet

The stones live on

And remember

The heart

Of the earth,

The cart-

Wheel tracks that run their way

Into the sea,

Of Malta, gray.

The walking before dawn

In the majestic winter

When the ice floe

Shimmered under

The dancing fairies of the moon,

To find the sacred stones

Of the path that went along, some time ago.

Now lost in the delirium

Of the modern world,

Gone

Awry from the start,

Let it leave soon,

Quickly,

To betray

The song of the mountain roses

That the stones may rise to an echoing drum,

Stones of mist.

Quiet,

The whispering fir trees of the forest,

The breath of God in the air, curled

In the smoke of the lost fires.

The eon closes.

From the eternity of being

There arises

The swan who sails softly

In long, snow-

Winged flight,

Over the hills

In the wild mists of dawn

Spires,

Free at last in the lost rain that spills

Through the mist

Of the singing mountains.

Dragons awake

To drifting skies.

*****

© Copyright Sharon St Joan, 2022, text and photo