She beckons me into the apothecary,
shows me the claw of a cat,
a silver feathered hat,
a goose’s foot.
Argentina Anserina: silverweed.
I go to the wasteland
where it has kneaded itself
into the gravel like a cat,
its nexus of stolons
umbilcaling sons and daughters,
yellow flowers like small fireworks
on the borders of the labyrinth
where soft shoes tread:
the pointed boots of witches
then the man who lived on a square of land
by grinding its roots into bread.
No need for plantage.
Archaeopteryx, I call to you kindly through layers of stone.
Geological time is not the history of the victors. No!
It does not lie or exploit. I pass through time
as I pass through stone like a wave of radiation,
find you in your death pose, bare bones of your wings
raised like the arms of a skeletal dancer, legs bent, killing claw
bared. The feathers of your frond-tail lift you into resurrection
soaring to heights where sylphs play bone-flutes
on your bones. Beautiful bird black wings like a raven’s
against the illusion of a double rainbow you forget
you are extinct. For a moment I forget our extinction,
smile with sharp small teeth and join you in flight
with a sweep of my bony feathered tail.
What is this hole through which the hope of the world is running out?
It is the spear-wound in the belly of a dragon sliced in half to make heaven and deep, quartered and scattered to the four winds, watchtowers established in each quarter to hold back her blood.
It is the sword-wound in the breast of a giant whose skull is the sky, whose bones are the mountains, whose flesh is the earth, whose blood was drained to make the sea around the earth.
It is the knife-wound in the groin of the Fisher King waiting bleeding in his boat on the translucent lake, no longer king, god, land, sky, sea, something bigger, awash in his rising blood.
Is this our chance to unhero ourselves, put down spears, swords, knifes, divisions? To staunch the wound with healing herbs and charms? To look into the eyes of the many-headed numinous and bend our heads in reverence together singing new songs?
Or will we die battling amongst ourselves, augmenting the divisions, cutting deeper wounds until all the hope has run out through the hole, all the blood, the last words on the final breath?
On Calan Mai
Gwythyr and Creiddylad unite.
Gwyn’s death gives life
to the blossoms
I will miss you
but you tell me
to enjoy Summer.