Our domain is the shadow play
between light and leaf,
life and death.
When we come it is often as birds;
rough boisterous wood pigeons,
robin in a flashing display of shining breast.
We are the hedgehogs becoming
small and shaggy ponies
or little men.
We march tree-tall
and if touched by moonlight,
like dragonflies, are beautiful as rumour.
We love and hate you.
In twisting valleys, shifting hills
and paths we bend, live out the old bonds;
our horses drown you,
we rip off and strip away your skins
to bare the kingdom underneath,
feather, leaf and bone wrapped in a glamoury
that withers, fades and crumbles
to dust at our feet.