Fallow

Slow down, slow down.

Within each Winter oak is a threadbare king,

Holding hope, assurances of Spring.

Stormworn air hangs over empty streets,

Falling fair where our assembly keeps.

Tower stone and half-remembered names,

Silver-sown with rivulets of rain.

Siskin sings in the space 'round spires,

Her wheeling wings like feathers 'round fire.

Now the last light falls, an early moon keeps pace,

And a footfall hist'rys what's not in a face.

Intertwined in this twilight hour,

The living land and her people's power.

The blessing:

May kestrels ever anoint your skies,

May your meadows ever be so sweet,

May the poets ever guide your eyes,

May the woodlands ever welcome your feet.

And for those who burn for,

the hollows thronged with hunted things,

the skies alive with preying wings,

take heart- for even the deepest shadow is only cast,

from the brilliance of the light.