In the nocent woods

This poem recounts a dream I had when I was at university. Yes, that was a long, long time ago.

In the nocent woods and running.

I'm a prophet,

a martyr - innocent at least - and male - I'm male! -

and running, panting, straining, bloodied feet

pounding earth, looking back to see who's on my trail.

Vikings! Helmets bearing horns, and a sharpened stake -

a tree trunk - drawn by two bison. Fate speaks my name.

There is one end, just one end, to this lifelong race.

They gain, they gain. Now blackness, silence, death.

I'm home.

The scream calls me back from black.

A woman howling;

a straining, squatting, Stone Age Venus.

On my knees,

I reach out, grab hold, draw from her loins the squalling

child of sacrifice - black-haired and bloodied.

The trees

bow down in greeting. The peerless blue of the skies,

gleaming leaves and the breeze smooth tears from our eyes,

***

The cover photo made the woods look very bleak. Here's a happier pair of pictures.