The raven’s walk

On a half-lit day


And clouded

The raven sipped the gray

And bitter brew

Of the sacred yew

And walked alone –


No one could tell –

In a country no one knows

His footfall

Made no sound

On the hollowed ground

In mist


There he went

Until the sun

Tossed her gold net

Of flowers


The crystal goblet

In the cathedral

Of enchanted hours

By the tall forest

And tolled the bell

Of rainbows.

Written around 2003

© Sharon St Joan, 2020

Photo 4888 © Denise Mcquillen |

The Forest

From atop the bone-bent tree

Two raven watchers scry

The ending of the ashen days,

Glimpsing the moment

When the rattling reign

Of the purveyors of death

Will be done,

Swept clean

In the wind’s breath.

Then the star-sent ways

Of the spring that spills

Over the rocks, singing

Her song that gladdens the earth

And the wide


Will be handed on

To the scions of light

To the shining ones

Who were ever there

In the stillness beyond the wall.

When the forest will abide

Anew in the deep tones

Of the wild

Owl, and will shake, with the innocent


Of the elephant

And her child,

Then gleaming worlds will live again

Under moons of mist that call

The winds to walk abroad on the steeps

Of the haunting hills,

Then out of the cast-off heaps

Will have climbed the brave ones,

Winged in robes of gossamer,

Born of the stones

Of the ever-dwelling


Of the mystical intent

Of the blackest ravens.

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