Briton

Stalking through the Heath you can feel ancient Briton,

kept quivering and suppressed under concrete and hedgerows

like rabbits-feet used to ward of a Boudiccan scream or

the lashing of some dark druidic rite.

There’s not enough red-brick pieces in all the land to build a Jerusalem here –

just a fleeting deer’s tail arcing off into some half-remembered forest,

its Soul still grumbling mightily over continental castration.

There are still Pans here, despite the coat-of-arms on every sign,

dancing their way round deep corners on acorn carpets.

It’s Eldric: a sense of the Faded People,

of disinherited paganism and a near-world populated by God’s

to early dead and to easily forgotten to be real anymore.

Were they ever here? Did we invent steps in the dirt as we huddled to the hearth?

Sought more than wonder in a Stag’s nobility,

found horror in the blood of sacrificial superstition...

made our god as we would have them been not as there were once,

striding glens and moors as the heroes of a story no longer told.

By way of explaination

So this is a 'poetry blog'...

I'm uncomfortable both with the idea of poetry and of another blog filled with adolescent scrawls and self-pitying linotypes.

But we'll see. See if anyone finds it. Or if I send them here...