Old god of this green silenced place,
how I wish you’d speak to me
I know you’re here. I feel your breath,
like dark lace laid across my neck,
a scurry down my back.
Come, give me now a small assurance
of my worth,
some sign of welcoming.
A whispered word of grace
is all I need from you.
Haven’t I returned, pressed poor,
compelled once more against myself,
Look. My palms are raised
My knees are ready to be
trembled to the ground.
And oh, the clouds, the greying lights
you gather far above my head
are grim as sentry wights.