I’m told to search the tabloid press,
to find my stars, auspicious time,
most opportune to take a step,
make stretch for stride, the leap of faith,
to steal a march on dawning fate.
My winding path’s not predestined –
decisions, left or right are mine,
or, occupy the middle ground
until the fence proves painful stance,
that hole in genes, my choice alone.
Each rooted faith draws ancient lore,
however twisted, stirred, or claimed;
when forests grounded after walk,
told fishes flew, figs grew on thorn,
foundations laid by greenman’s store.
Built wizard, warlock, sorcerer,
bag shaken bones from necromance –
but these were late, not starter cant,
nor early search amongst the groves –
but craft designed, feared, ignorance.
As covens faded, wands misspelt,
a divine life asserted truths –
truncated time in body span;
a tree brought pain, yet death erased,
self-knowledge through that cross-grained wood.
Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church, has had over 250 pieces published by on-line poetry sites, including Poetry Potion, printed journals and anthologies. https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/