Hunter of leaves,
Lover of the seasons
Take my wild soul
To the moon in the river.
Staring from the museum
eye pits glare beneath fierce horns,
haunted wells of atrophy,
gazes flee their blind prisons
back to Taurean eras
of thunder down the river,
reeking ride of reddish hides
steaming wild to the water,
skidding sudden to a halt,
thick bones trembling, muscles taut,
bullish courage killed by fear
of men’s spears and swift assault.
Seeing skies alive with darts
herd wheels, swings and departs.
Knees buckle and hocks collapse
at the agony of barbs.
Most escape, some are slaughtered,
five stagger, tidal water
rises as they struggle and sink.
Its cold brink claims their corpses.
Tides turn. Sediments heap.
Silt and till on layered peat
bury bones in sunken sands,
erred, abandoned for centuries
until wrested from repose
five bovine skulls are disclosed
by dockland’s excavation,
shivering blind and exposed.
Breezes trace visages bared.
Tongueless trophies taste the air.
Denied thunder impaled rage
hangs displayed, an endless stare.
Skull songs lie trapped in the eyes.
Visions burst where times collide.
Bones cry for wind-swept stampede,
aurochs released to the wild.
* This poem is based on a simplified variation of Englyn Cyrch, which I learnt from Robin Herne’s Bard Song.