Category: Wild birds

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