On the tilting edge of the moon
The raven danced
To herald the coming
Of a newer, spirit-misted world.
Black – so many of the days
Of yesteryear,
Caught in a curled tailspin
Of swirling dust,
Yet, within the eye
Of the innocent deer,
Who stands at the border of the forest
Her toes of moonlight
Dipped in the stream
Of whirling
Shadows,
There, the ancient fire glows.
Soon,
Not far away,
The spry
Young dragon
Who chanced by –
Timid – gathers
His courage
And leaps into the fray
To play
With his lively brother.
Old deep songs in the fall-enchanted hills
Portray
A distant memory,
A clatter of bones,
Round and round the strings
Of former days
Strung together
Like ringed stones
That still
Sing
Among the dark, foreboding, rocky pillars
Of the night.
Always
Born anew,
The recurring
Blessing —
Of the bird-lit house of flowers
Perched on the tall hill –
Glimmers by the footsteps
Of the last fairy
Dancing
By the fish-finned
Stream,
In the raindrops
Of glistening showers,
Fallen from the silver mountain,
Bright
In the sacred sun,
Where the raven dreams
And dances
In the final, awakening days
Of prophecy,
In the cold wind.
Copyright Sharon St Joan 2022