maker
day maker
crimp out you heroes and your hues
oh I will use you
lend me you torches mother sun
and motor force alike
for these things i know
the ridge and the dark yew forest slumber supine
daring downward shafts to break their umbral valleys
and their magisterial crowns of mystery
where in its throne the thorny brakes
and uncoiling frond led tracts
the jewel of woodland animals to shy to make much show
or flitter in the small passages of joy that plead lights cause
move like leafage peeling
wandering from branch and bract to silent floors a muffled
excepting flaunting insects all keep silent
forsaking none they will close and keep muted word
and babies never cry
you must quiesce to ancient rite
laid in your merlin crib small things a wisdom
for hunters came this way a many day ago
nailed breast-bones blowpipes stylized
their heads aglow with feathers raw in colour
and clouded by your fathers deaths
ho there sad connections
perforate the rye and forests glands with angst
for tears do fall
and though trees and thin leaf litters draw-ear
may endorse their footfall
i hear their thunder
long before they come
and see in heed some took no quiet precaution
and upon that time
an instance gone a question posed
now overgrown by time
their carcass relics spoilt
their pedigree and vital fluid drained
among the foliole and follies
for fading are the took
like waves lutine upon the river bank
when exodants that swam who made excited crossing
clapping clamped hearts and its metaphor they saved their souls
i watched them
ken with lore
for i too am the hunter from the darker parts
absorbed by stealths abduction
for i love to see and kill
but too i love the admiration of the prey
and in its worship so i steep my love
hear you men of south and men of youth
all sews the corn
and its written lore you think a cynosure to intellect
whilst once communion you made with native gods
now addled riddled with suspicion
so i tell you face yourself
and be the minion of your intuition
sufficiencies be forewarned
to you knowledge were known as passed
intact and honed as one to lie
along our bones
and bring us to the pansophy of dark places
of its killing and its coat of shock
and attend its sly inurement
as hunters in their laxity and arrogance turn prey
attend those duties and honour
which the gambol and the feasting on the fallen frame require
twists has serra in malignant pastures
gleaned you one and all
whose old objectives all washed out
and on its skills
intact and ground to one
to lie reanimate
for its mystic purpose and its hard dragged tasks
its path obscured within the wildwood nonconforming
the weald of life has no easy path as i recall
and bodies burn beside its hard won ways
like torches of the mother sun
as epitaph to carelessness and homage to decay