If they weren’t women
running through the trees
what were they? Or put it
a different way, if it wasn’t
a boat came slow and dark
across the channel to the island
what was it? What do we
really know about water,
about wood?

2.
Still dark.
The questions
linger.
You’d think
thinking
would bring
light the way
praying
brings peace
at times
to those who share
that strangest
of all conversations,
doesn’t it?
The nights
grow longer—
do we fear
the Sun?

3.
Close to the other side
a bell is ringing,
when we stand beneath it
we can actually see
out into the dim green meadow
all the way to the horizon.
No hint of what comes after that.
But the bell is clear. 

4.
I sit here scribbling runes on stones
little stones I toss into the stream.
Who knows what good they do
and I hope no harm.
The signs are washed clean,
what they mean, if anything,
soaks off and spreads
quick through rushing water.
I toss stones into the rapids,
supposing I feed words to the sea.

5.
Is it light yet?
I want to know
without looking outside.
And why can’t I feel you
this morning, you’re only
two hundred miles away—
are you going to let
distance stand between us?
I want it now is the only song.

6.
I look the word up
in some book and find
your face smiling out at me
smirking almost at my long
forgetfulness, a thousand years.
Why can’t I see you
even when I don’t know enough to look?

7.
Why do children call
each other nasty names
and laugh and run away?
This may be the most
rational question of all.
Sticks and stones we sang
can break my bones
but names can never hurt me!
How brave and wrong we were,
bruises fade, insults linger,
fester, turn into attitude,
resentment, politics.
And all the mockers too are mocked—
who teaches us to hurt with words? 

8.
So I dare to stare
into the trees once more,
dark enough to be safe
from seeing who
they really are who move there.
Spirits of another world
prowl elegant in this one,
the nameless woods of now.

29 October 2020