The Return


When the great ones return

Raining magic from their wings,

Then only the white teeth

Of the concrete kings

Will glimmer

In the pool of death,

By the cool urn.

Nothing else will fall on the stone,

No one slain,

But only

The bitter echo

Of lies,

And even

The pot

Of tattered tales

Of yore,

All misbegot,

Will be shred

And gone.

Towers overturn

When the green waves rise,

Bearing the emerald throne,

Then the majesty of the deep,

Will cast off the oppressor,

And deliver


From its gray-nodding sleep,

Long bewitched in the chronicles of error.

Now the nimble goat

Slips her tethers,

To skip again on the grass-enchanted height


The boundless skies,

At one with spirits of the living tide.

The throat

Of the lion of wisdom

Will rumble anew;

The rain

Of Indra will crash from

The chariot of thunder,

When the forests reawaken to reclaim the earth.

Nothing will be lost then,

Only the mirror of untruth

Will crack and shatter,

When wolves dance on the hillside,

There where tigers roam, growling

In the darkness;

Their bright



Along the holy way of the night,

When spirits return

In the white magic of winter,


On the howling

Winds of joy, in the songs of sunrise;

In victory, horses of snow


In stride,

Across the broad plain.

Leaving in their wake only the stillness

Of the lily of eternity

Waving in the sunlit rain,

For the truly living do not die,

But only the walking, dissonant dead,

What is will be

And what is not

Has never been;

The leaves are one with the eternal tree,

Where peacocks,


Watch intently in the blue


Beyond the rim of history,

The great winged mother

Shakes the dust of opals from

Her feathers,


Her wanderlings,

The garbling geese

And their errant


The trees of twisted juniper,

The moon-radiant


And all her children,

Into her many-storied home of peace

By the green-banked river

In the haunting bells of dawn.

© Sharon St Joan, August, 2013


Photo: © Conorwaldock /



Journey of the wolves


From within


The immortal




Of the lily


Arise the mists in


Which the cathedral


Of bright








All the winters


Of destiny,


Though the tall firs


List against the bone-


White hill,




The call of the moon invite


The wind-footed wolves to


Return across the night


Over the hinterlands


Of circled ice


Across the crevasse


And the mountain


To the peace of the timeless dawn.



Written in 2008


Photo: © Alexfiodorov |





Eye of the Wolf

In the scarred land


Under the wind-haunted skies


By the village that is marked on no map,


With no history, no tribe, no country.


Where the wind wails,


Through the worn


Windows of mud brick,


Past the edge


Of the gap


In the barrier




Shining paws




In the shadowed circle.


Silver tails


Flick, flick.


Let us go quickly


Now, to follow


The call


Of the black plateau


Where the rocks stand




In the billowing


Grass.  It is better to go


To see the wide, white jaws


Of the wolf than to sit, sipping


Bitter stones in this village


Of empty




Than to sit by the torn


Stumps of corn


That crackle


Like pale scales


In the dry-finned wind.


Let us go quickly


Now, and gladly


Into the courage


Of the eye


Of the wolf, into


The brave-riven flame


Of the night with no name.


Where only the lone




Of the owl-hooded harrier




From rock to rough-rued rock


In the soul of the dawn,


In the song of the stone,


In the winged wind


That will fly through the open sky


And forever be gone.


Written around 2003


Photo: © Thomas Barrat /