There in his Keep, netted in with nettles
Knotted with rooted lives, the shadow people
His crown ruffled with grass and wild flowers
Hints at nothing, least of all dark power.
From here he watches us build with branches
Then stones, then brick, make homes, make whole
A flick of gold delights as he dances
With pale anticipation of fresh souls.
Now scratched out in rows, march out trenches
From gravel, to dry stone wall, to proud oak
They shun the shade that slowly approaches
Warm in the cold earth they hold onto hope.
“Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord”
Gods dance within us, beautiful, flawed.
Garrie Fletcher
Location: The churchyard