Photo by Julia Arte on Unsplash
All fingers point north,
Towards the ice my gaze is fixed
Beyond damp rock and rot,
Walking upon swan foot, raven cloaked,
Stomach in a knot.
Tears stream from the source,
At the sight of secrets old
Engraved in holy yews,
I’m not sure I’m meant to see this
I say, as I sip their milky dew.
About the Creator
Ally Whiterock
Truth seeker. Perpetual disciple of the mystery. Star gazer. Good food lover. Mother. Lover. Accidental orientalist. Sometimes Shaman.
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