Once, in summer's heat of horror
(gone now, in forgotten fogbanks,
gone away beneath the water),
parents of an hour gathered
all their children close around them,
fearing that the summer's horror
soon would reach from misted shadow,
far beyond the distant shadow,
clawing life from all it tainted,
puppeteering dancing corpses
into dances quick with hatred,
death for death - misguided vengeance
tearing breath and thought and nature
from the throats of child and parent,
huddled in their lighted bastion
by the cold and fog-choked water -
Once, before, in other summers,
long before in other winters,
others ran through other forests
singing for their mother forests
and the creatures they called cousins:
goldeneye and pike and eagle,
cuckoo, elk, and lynx and adder
and the greatest, Honey-eater,
never slain with killing purpose,
always given proper guidance
through the sky to godly forests
lest his spirit swell with fury,
lest he bring down fire and ruin
(horror summer, hidden winter)
on the people of the forests
who had dared to thus forget him,
who had done him such dishonor
that their deaths were naught but justice -
twisted justice, monster's justice,
blinded eyes and bloody sword-edge,
portent over child and parent
in but one poor fool's beholding -
In that summer, understanding.
In that summer, the fool's errand
ended thus the summer's chapter,
led a funeral procession
for the vengeful, dancing corpses
back to where they had been sired,
home to wilds of tree and hillside,
while, below, the lighted bastion
slept - and woke, unplagued with horror,
to the brighter days of summer,
days that faded, as all seasons.
So the parents of an hour
sent the children to their homelands;
so the snows fell all untrodden,
so the forest slept in silence
but for one: the fool, still singing,
leading dead things to their resting,
on and on and on and onward -
to whose shores, no one remembers.
Once, in summer free of horror,
different parents of an hour
knew not what had come before them,
who had wandered too far onward,
who now slept, unknown, unknowing
(gone into forgotten fogbanks,
gone away beneath the water,
unmourned princess of the dream-lake
who, on land, was heir to nothing).
Years passed through their whirling seasons.
Still the princess-fool slept onward.
Still the forest's place of summer
found new children every summer,
children knowing naught of horror -
peace and laughter reigned triumphant,
sweet as the last fruits of summer,
soft as clouds before the thunder,
joyful as the leaping salmon
as he struggles toward his deathbed.
Monsters do not die that quickly.
Summer brings the summer's monster,
certain as the season's whirling,
certain as the shadows deepen
every dusk, with every nightfall -
closer stalks the summer's monster,
trailing hatred in its footsteps.
So it goes: the woods cry warning,
mists descend, defenses falter,
people die. The tale continues.
And who am I, that I can share it?
No one, really - just a relic,
surface smoothed by misted water,
scoured gently from the stories
that the eldest search for guidance.
Woods-bound ghost of two beginnings,
memories that hold no water,
once more straying too far onward
into someone else's future.
Who am I to play intruder?
Just a guardian, woeful omen,
piper pied or guide unbroken -
you, ice-sister, water-brother,
know you this, if nothing other:
someone waits beyond the treeline,
someone who would see you safely
through the hell of summer's horror,
through the fangs of fog and bone;
though you may feel lost and helpless,
help is never far behind you;
though you wander by your lonesome,
you are never quite alone.
