Spun out strung out helices of whispering
instincts deep within the murmuring of hidden generations
long before writing led us into misinterpretation
enslaving our tales, stifling our inklings of this indifferent harmony
there was a way through the mist and some knew
and they felt the signs even then
whilst others laughed and stayed by the river
or on the mountain and drowned or froze to death.
Those of us who loved the mist
wooed the right gods we heard our forefathers
deep within we knew there was no fighting it
the heavens turned, the moon soared across the sky and
the voices of spirits guided us through
the tangle of our brief years until we too became whispers
of comfort for those who would listen.
(First published in Current Accounts 31)