I drive north
From the Shaker village
A spiral road
Towards the foothills of the mountains
On black asphalt slick as motorcycle leather
Still the engine to wander,
A meandering path,
Gold-leaf strewn, heart-shaped, crisp underfoot
A processional path
Between the pillars of
Lithe white birches,
A temple of Karnak,
In the woods of Maine
Into the fern brake, chipmunks furtively dash
The deer linger warily on the treeline,
Penetrating the leafage with their eyes
An aureole of golden ovals glow
Only the deer and the wilderness know
Hidden in the grove,
A pool of translucence, waters, depthless,
Fed by melting snow thaw,
Issuing from a hollow in the earth
Across the waters, a ledge of crimson rock juts,
Fringed by clumps of thyme and wild mint,
Rainbow trout swim in triskele rings
Nickel silver quivers
Rippling concentric circles
There, the spirits of the ancient ones remain
Singing paens to field and forest
Keeping vigil,
Three’s nights in the lap of an ash tree,
Leaving offerings
Swatches of clothe and bow
Tied to low hanging hazel branches
Interlocking hands
Dancing on the sixth day of the moon
Though we are ruled now by
Dogma and divine law
Cathedrals bury the ancient gathering places
Yet in this place, overlooked, known to few
My ears strain to hear:
The flutter of an elder whistle
The singing of sacred songs
The throbbing of drums
The patter of dancing feet
Whispered enchantments
Behind mushroom shaped stones
I can feel the flow
Ancestral waters coursing inside