Thursday, April 09, 2009

Ley Lines

Though summer,
there is fog,
cold salt air,
and granite boulders.

trees sculpted by wind and sea,
moss draped,
twisted like walking sticks.

Picking low bush blueberries
leads us to the edge of the woods
and then inside.

A cold feeling envelopes us.
We look up into a clearing
guarded by ravens;
huge, black, cold as the wind
they speak an ancient
menacing tongue.

We have intruded upon
things not meant for us.

Terrible purpose thrums
in the rocks.

We turn and run
and never return.

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