By The Hawthorn's Lea

Dearling, see my heartsome way,

The hawthorn branching nearby;

For peace the sacred seeds delay,

With every shivering breeze they fly.

Some forgetful browning pods

Are given the moons waxing light;

Of standing in tall grass hidden moors

Is buried silent by moon-eyed dark;

The bended pods shake down their bed

As taken from windy chimes instead,

To swallow words passed lips unmet,

Whispering a melody of Celtic sets.

Here, into awesome waves, flow

Harbinged passion made uneased nights,

Passing and passing where we’d go

This wanting spiraled into life.

For staring into empty pods,

As seeing past and present leap and lend,

Your vision waxes with gentle care:

Dearling, look into your soul.

Envision ne’er in mirrors past

To evil, in its bewitching style,

Hold up the light and let them leave,

But see little and look less

As images grow deadly slow

From cut grasses, and burned lands,

With sprouting seeds below the snow

Pressed sorrowful by baleful winds.

Everything returns to dust

By the dark mirror that evil cradles,

These wearisome husks of grass,

Created when All was All in aging fables.

Where, into awesome waves,

Flee In flocks of restless thoughts;

Looking in and looking out

For all that’s there is already bought.

Hear the breezes speak of these,

As they quiver quaking free; at last!

Your gentle vision seems not kind:

Look not at waxen mirrored images past.