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
