Dawn and dusk, stage curtains draped
Across revolving earth’s round face;
Birds carol dawn but muse at dusk,
The land becomes a stranger place
From which diurnal life withdraws
While moths and badgers find accord,
Our world consumed by its own shadow
Until dew falls and then tomorrow
Grows from light that’s grey and plain,
Imperceptibly, it’s day!
Noon’s high tide is rarely noted,
Shadows then are at their shortest.
Midnight’s other self moves on,
Shadows turn and also lengthen,
Then spread, diffuse, imbue the air,
Soften the light until none’s there.
It’s in these times, twilight’s hours,
Half-light unveils crepuscular power
In rising mist, the liminal tricks
Peripheral vision, a barn owl flits.

We were a god and goddess bird of old,
Our divinity was recognised;
We would inspire and make your blood run cold.
Your blood-lust later blamed on us – such lies!
Your double standard came as no surprise.
Our corpse-perch eating was effect not cause.
A distance grew between us – not the sky’s;
We had the wildlife while you did your chores,
We’d come back now and then to dine out on your wars!

From nest-site cliffs of mountains, fells and coasts,
We shadow you and gaze upon your ruin
And circle round you, feathered coal-black ghosts.
Noticeable, we charm our way back in;
Despite yourself, we get beneath your skin.

A mythic poem: earth and sky as wed,
And wedding places cover earth’s domain;
Wren’s nest, fox den, bear cave – and human bed.
All warm and dark, all different but the same,
Where seeds are nurtured, creatures brought to birth.
On woodland floors, damp rotting layered leaves
Shroud multitudes of sprouting plants; no dearth
Of anything, bats hunt, a spider weaves.
But Birches’ rushing sap goes down as well
As up, arboreal pale ghosts, thin ghouls;
Old age’s midwives watch each passing hearse;
The leafless, bone-barked Yuletide trees of Hel.
Hopes of rebirth seem vain and hollow, cruel,
Like Loki’s daughter’s grinning horse-head curse.

Fire fiercely flickers, and fast it burns,
the purest Energy of a primal world;
for endless action it always yearns,
and racing around, it raged and swirled.
Ice is awe-filled and utterly still,
the purest Form of a primal realm;
’tis silent, focused, and centered will,
stopping motion with a steadying whelm.
Becoming and being: When blended they’re freeing.

___________________________

Eirik Westcoat