In the distant hills where cloves of stick burned brilliantly, past the brown perfume of mulch and the faded green of twilight, neon-sound, with the coming storm a toss hurt the earth where was tossed in the teetering of Gods, Goddesses, Mysteries and Thistle Cloaks. Where a Crown of Stars and Isis knew of the other, and an equinox blurred the sky, where Winter dripped away into a honey coloured river, and Springtime sang in the flutter of new birthds and eagle feathers.
She drifted along the waters edge, trailing leaves of various hues and depths of gold, yellow and red in her way, moving into the sunset, the sunrise and the blue of twilight, where ancestry and phantoms of the future blessed the earth in quiet and she sank to her knees.
There, in a healing of the brutal flicker of lightning she sang her incantation. A bruised fixture in the dry grass, she was the Autumns Song, a bitter history, but in present a beauty that bore no signs of trauma or fracture. She rose elegantly and moved again, only to sink to her knees and let fall into the air from a rose tongue her verbal talismans and prayer. If one looked at her close enough, before she frolicked away like a Springbok or Deer spooked, One could identify her as a seedling burier, pressing the fruit of life into the worn, decaying land to bring birth.
This was not her role.
She was meant to turn with the tide, wash out on the shore and show the beauty of death. The vibrancy of new life. In its leaving. In its renewal.
Where does she go from now?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Years later, sitting in a tavern with a goblet of spiced wine and music to fill her ears, she was tingling within all her senses, including the shaking of her spirit, resonated chords of symmetry. She drew upwards to the window, knowing her kind sought her. That the Mystery and the Gallantry, the Unknown and the Angelic had their wars, had their questions. She had been tossing and turning in her sleep, as restless and discomforted as her cousins; all birch, fir and Elm, the deep dark forest damp and dark and quiet suddenly so so quiet it was deafening. She sobbed by that window then, feeling the tremors of disquiet rumble in the night and into her eavesdropping heart.
No longer a orange body with red hair and golden eyes, she was fair with finely tipped points at the topmost ridge of her ear, with hair silvery white in ringlets pressed into a bun, in an ornately designed regal gown of frosty purple and snow-white lace. She drew the broadsword from her hip and held it out, as Winter came charming all those that had Known all this time, bidding true to her ears the Truth.
Lain, slain, these tortured souls of the bone and the scrabble of secrets, they whispered into chill air and snow flake. Her sword bore now blood but instead rain drops and fog.
A turn, a run, a scamper into the distance. Towards Home. Towards the Seasons Turning to Winter and to then Spring. To find all that was lost.
She drifted along the waters edge, trailing leaves of various hues and depths of gold, yellow and red in her way, moving into the sunset, the sunrise and the blue of twilight, where ancestry and phantoms of the future blessed the earth in quiet and she sank to her knees.
There, in a healing of the brutal flicker of lightning she sang her incantation. A bruised fixture in the dry grass, she was the Autumns Song, a bitter history, but in present a beauty that bore no signs of trauma or fracture. She rose elegantly and moved again, only to sink to her knees and let fall into the air from a rose tongue her verbal talismans and prayer. If one looked at her close enough, before she frolicked away like a Springbok or Deer spooked, One could identify her as a seedling burier, pressing the fruit of life into the worn, decaying land to bring birth.
This was not her role.
She was meant to turn with the tide, wash out on the shore and show the beauty of death. The vibrancy of new life. In its leaving. In its renewal.
Where does she go from now?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Years later, sitting in a tavern with a goblet of spiced wine and music to fill her ears, she was tingling within all her senses, including the shaking of her spirit, resonated chords of symmetry. She drew upwards to the window, knowing her kind sought her. That the Mystery and the Gallantry, the Unknown and the Angelic had their wars, had their questions. She had been tossing and turning in her sleep, as restless and discomforted as her cousins; all birch, fir and Elm, the deep dark forest damp and dark and quiet suddenly so so quiet it was deafening. She sobbed by that window then, feeling the tremors of disquiet rumble in the night and into her eavesdropping heart.
No longer a orange body with red hair and golden eyes, she was fair with finely tipped points at the topmost ridge of her ear, with hair silvery white in ringlets pressed into a bun, in an ornately designed regal gown of frosty purple and snow-white lace. She drew the broadsword from her hip and held it out, as Winter came charming all those that had Known all this time, bidding true to her ears the Truth.
Lain, slain, these tortured souls of the bone and the scrabble of secrets, they whispered into chill air and snow flake. Her sword bore now blood but instead rain drops and fog.
A turn, a run, a scamper into the distance. Towards Home. Towards the Seasons Turning to Winter and to then Spring. To find all that was lost.