I confide my soul to the wilderness
to my darling in the cold water
Streaming round the rocks, rushing
down between the banks of greasy grass
With lichen and golden moss, a fox looking by.
Seeking Hamlet’s daughter, under the big wheel
in the cold water running through the crannies :
The miller’s child, on the dewy hillside.
I confide my life and soul to the wilderness,
to these stones from heaven fallen down.
To the snake and the black beetle the wild pig.
A wanderer like the ancient King, offering
My strength to the ancient & antique spirit in the Heart.
Overhead, the polar vortex churns the huge abyss
spinning like an empty top, covered with bright specks
Scintillating through the dark azure of my darling’s hair.
There is certainly a place in the celestial sphere. Where even though, father and mother, had lost there way among the brown brambles and ruddy thorns, they could be salvaged or spared by our secret special activity. In the sanguine memory circulating in the brain.
Yet if weary of it continually, your spontaneous perception would be theirs as well, even if they trespassed unawakened. These ghosts who lost their way among the brown brambles & red thorns. Unawares of their plight.
Renewed surely on your pilgrim journey to the Northern Pit having found all three roots of Igdrasil.
I confide all my soul and life and pounding heart
to the wilderness.
To the rushing water running round the rocks
seeking Hamlet’s daughter.
With lichen and moss on either side
a fox looking by.
