Through watery eyes the distant
village resembles a watercolour
painted by a peevish child.
Antediluvian howls ride winds
of pagan breath unhindered by
steel or wire; those symbols of
progress that feed rhetoric to
innocents, isolating communities,
depriving original thought from
simple minds; though not here.
Invigorated by primal virtue, I call
ancestors in deep inward breaths,
smell the essence of Albion, synthetic
garbs expunged, pagan spirit
reborn as I straighten like a birch.
Run through centuries, callused,
contused, away from ignorance;
bounding through bracken into
ancient rituals, feeling the pulse
of the land through swollen feet.
Atop of the highest hill, ancient
stone welcomes my homecoming
as I look to the valley; oak, beech,
and thorn meeting my clear eye
reclaiming my right and origin.
Breathless on the Pennine moor,
stooped in triumph, held fast by
piercing blasts among a sea of
succumbing grasses, I rejoice
in peace and perfect agony.