The Cairn Tree

Inevitability is a lost art amongst your kin.
You, pale two legged ghosts of what ye
truly are, you of witch brood, you
of blood sinn.
.
Ya worries bring ye naught, gone
are your uncircled lives before
a meadow break, a robins song
and then ye leave, ye die.
.
You’ve the worries of ant’s and
beasts dwellin’ here in me wood.
Why do yeh forget, warlock man
why do ye set aside a call of…
.
You’re very own magick blood?

Chris Whitenack © 2014