We stood boot-legged and holding hands
Over the coppice-nosed summit hoisted in gales that rendered fiction's airs,
Caught in mist and ruddle terrain
Nobody seemed to know the whorled, mage-art quietness spoke in;
Deafened trills, wordless whispers_
Still we leaned to snare that omen of wisdom,
Still we hushed down the hills and poised up the world to put sound over tale weaved wafts bedding nigh the orb
A secret lode our soles gravel prickled took
As the green faces of the foliage murmured branches about pilgrims;
Lanes crossed, even more_ veins untertwined.
Winking in her suspended vortex
The grey moon bode watching over one more craved searching
A pair, cusped in cloak and cape from the retail stand
Like a leak of blood in those dewy thickets
Drawn from shatterings' own shards
Legs cut down the thumb of fog plying the timber trails, the hounding
That would drag muddled root, singing in signs, to towards dim highs and pulling burrows
Baroqued in yearns, tenderest fingers
20/1/2024