© by Steve King
All rights reserved
The
sacred groves have all been hewn to render fences, dwellings, and their neat
décor,
and
rafts of other transitory things that will not shimmer nor bend with the air.
Not
so much for temples and their ilk; not sanctuaries nor remote retreats
to
shelter mendicant reflections, or to echo with those quaint old prayers.
Gone,
the children’s hiding place in sheltered fairy-bowers;
gone
the shamans and their daylight charms; gone the wise birds and seers.
I’ve
read that in old days, those times gone by when gods were still with us,
with
powers fit to fill the ready air, their large presence would inhabit the woods;
and
for the gift of hospitality they would endow the golden boughs
with
full song of spirit to hymn the notes of the enlivened leaves,
bidding
winds to sing; granting grace to those who dreamed as kings,
if
only over those small shaded realms, if only for a moment.
And
now the sacred groves are gone, and gods don’t live by ready air alone.
Vacant
are those airs, and stilled the voice that echoed all around;
and
scattered on the open ground, the ashes of what once were golden boughs.
