by Nick Gisburne
Is this the place? I touch the wolf, unsure.
The circle of the moon reveals no sign,
But every lick of light is perfect, pure.
Is this night we dare to cross the line?
The fringes of the forest, ghoulish, grey,
Tormented, stained with shadow, heaving, hiss.
The trees deny their tangles know the way,
Deceptions, darkness, devils we dismiss.
The spirit of the Seeker Tree submits,
Its timbers far too twisted to resist.
Within, the heart of nature’s nightmare splits,
And we, the dreamers, woman, wolf, are kissed.
We cross, beyond the line, beyond the curve,
To find the bliss, the blessings, we deserve.
