Poem: Visit to a Grave


Visit to a grave –

We cross the threshold, passing through

The old iron gate; a defensive plexus to

Keep the dead in, and the living away;

A truncated giant okay, just there to

Mark, all the agony of that moment,

Still recorded in bark.


We walk further in. Two coronal yew

Trees look on, their energy sending out

A hum of blue, to muddy the mist’s



In that moment, I felt what it is to be

A Child of The Mist – A Founding in

The Fog – what it was to be a Celt;

What it was to put your ancestors

In the ground, as an offering to the

Same mists that bore you


For the fog is our father – the mist is our mother;

From the fog we came – to it we Return



But, there is more to fog than just this.

I know this, as I sit in the car, and the

Music of Brahms speaks sonic truth from

The stereo speaker – I know this as

The winter spirits amble – and

My spine is interwoven with a trellis

Of brambles


I sit beside my mother –

Her partner in grief –

Her Second in Command –

She the Commander in Chief


For your Christmas Tree is not holiday

Paraphernalia, but a cosmic pillar –

The roots lead to the underworld –

The branches lead to heaven –

And the baubles are no ornaments,

But symbols of the spheres; even in

Your own living room, you can find

A map of the cosmos before you



If you could see the fog as I see it,

You would not see it as an obstruction –

As the senility of the landscape – but

The majesty of light, learning to see itself –

Of wisdom gently teasing itself, and pretending

It’s not there at all




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