coming home



no chimneys smoke
no people
dwell
no holy well,
but a pocket
of flint
smooth
sharp when napped
it slept
in the ground
until
I found it
 
in the vee
of ancient yew boughs
someone
placed a stone
like an antler,
an offering
from the deer people
echoing
the growth of trees
 
who goes
in the grove,
who shelters
under the skelter
of trees,
whose hands
smooth the rippled bark,
whose heart
made an altar
of the yew?
 
those ancients
walked the land
before these trees
were seeds,
you can feel them still
in the quiet
of the vee
formed by the hills
in the valley
of the grove
of yews
of you
of me.
we
are the people  

           we walk
         our rainbow walk
         we talk
         our raindrop talk
         we drop our voices
         under the yews
 
         we sing
         our ringing hearts
         we bring
         our offerings
         we reel
         bringing feelings
         wringing out
         our hearts -
         what we offer
         is ourselves

under the branches,
the shapes
of gothic arches.
on the silent skyline
barrows march.
the mewing
of the distant
buzzard -
a call to prayer
 
a prayer that
moans in the wind,
a wild and silent prayer,
entreaty
for healing
for forgiveness
that beseeches
here
loud
in the ear,
a buzzing-of-insects-prayer
rasping
in our heads,
a fluttering-of-leaves prayer
whispering
on the breeze.
the clasping of hands
and genuflexion.
moving branches
applaud
success
 
oh yes
there is darkness too
in the grove,
the twilight grows
thick
here.
those with weak bellies
go home
before sundown.
there
where shadows move
and the shade deepens
the only flash
a movement
at the corner of my eye
the brave
merge with the shadow
of their past,
the wind mourns
their passing,
life goes on
the yews grant life
support it
hide it
seek it
live and die it,
their rotting
in the damp earth
thrives
 
I can smell it
taste it
long after,
it’s in my nose
my eyes
my ears
on my tongue.
the life of the grove
is in my touch,
so much
life giving,
my fingers move
at the tree’s will,
stroke the colours -
      green-brown-dun
      pink-lime-purple
      sunsets
      in the clouds
      of bark –
 stroke the colours
 polish them
a prayer
to perfection

and now
the sharpness of flint
opens my hand,
cut to the bone
blood flows
drip
drop
on to the earth
my offering
my thanks
for the shadows
coming home

the yew grove is at Kingley Vale, near West Stoke, West Sussex