Sacred, ancient Albion
lend your ears to me.
Let whispers of the reed stems
bleed into fields around me.
For language, blood, and spirit
draw a bow string and I feel the pull;
there something shared.
Possess me of your story’s wisdom,
a wrestle with love and fleeting calculation.
There’s a door somewhere in your grassy web
and that’s why the heart and why the head
had their tether split in you.
Ah, but how to mend anew?
Complete archive can be found on the Poems page.
This poem was published in Europa Sun magazine, Issue 4, April 2018
Illustration: Stonehenge, Wiltshire, by James Ward