Regional voice, take our praise, conscious of its centre. Time waves, shutters the current of lighted word, buried in bedlam. Deeply shaken, the wolf starves with warm blankets. The fire surveys the maps of men. Having begun to raise their heads, to look away, as the scythe rakes the warm blood, the beautiful plane, the subdued craft, bend the branch, ignore the root. The Elderflowers to wed the queen. Moon on water tracks the decent, a story of itself. Settling fragments, holy dusk, other worlds curve under deadwing. The flightless rage, cut from heavens cord, yet resonance whispers to be claimed by this place. Bound by ambition, funerals feasting on desire. Clarity is within the cloak of fog. To frame the words, they set the trap, forget its making. The hurling abyss, the footfall of dead wounds. To not remake the world in such a image, a reflection retained, this maddening gaze. To allow it to return, to takes its place as ours within this fold. To bow in reverence. Casting the circle to enshroud without boundary, know demarcations to signify an indifference. To attend with wanting ear, to hear stories rising from stone, to find true north.
Inspired by and some words found and rearranged from Dr.
Martin Shaw, Scatterings: Getting Claimed in the Age of Amnesia
Image by: Amanda Charchian