Featured Image: The Eye © Sandra Hosking 2017
In the beginning is the wyrd,
and the wyrd is many tendrilled in the forest,
and the wyrd is knitting flesh in the wolfthickets,
know this, the wyrd writes songs in the dandelions,
it presses wine from the songs, the wyrd
is eating from the mind’s womb and drinking cold water.
All the world’s streams fill it.
The wyrd tastes protozoa and copper
and swallows knowledge beneath the bower.
The wyrd smells the earth’s tense language.
The word for wyrd is several words,
Crow, Fisher, Death, Fox, tarot cards
drawn from a deck crying soft the wilderness.
All dust luminous at sunset,
curling unaware around the little wyrd.
The secret beginning,
the germ of reflection,
the humming inside your ears.