Hymn to the Land

bury your wounds, allowing
moorland dirt to coat fingernails †
thinking of soles and toes and ankles
drumming dirt with the dance
of memories, of Beltane fires  
wild arms extended  
fingers flexed as if reaching  
through clouds, weaving
night into glorious day
let a body drop, the weight of it
swaying gently on hammocks  
made of willow branches
waiting for rainó
pure, crystalline droplets
falling from a mottled sky
giving yourself over to it all  
bruised, yet full and feeling
because you are all these things
your scars, your waltz, your tears
wombed in an earthen nest
becoming part of everything
becoming part of yourself  

Written by Northern_Soul (-Missy-)
Author's Note
Letters to the Old Ways
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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