Winistre

A hymn to a nameless god of a forgotten religion … From the forthcoming United Bible Studies album ‘So As To Preserve The Mystery’.

Snow, exploded, white
As one is born, one dies

As the cold envelops in my cell
The weaving unravels in my hands

Through my window, Winter’s needlework
Picking a way for he who now comes

(Is it nothing to you, all you who pass by?)

He is the man whose face is pierced by branches
Arms fastened in hedgerows

Who fades in broken, staggering the woods
Falling from one tree unto another in agony

Hands cracking to become the black ash buds
And then the piercings of the larch

Alone, his sacrament the snow
To clothe bare feet, the mis-shapen wanderers

No monuments or rituals in his honour
His cries are the binding of the elements of Winter

No genuflection, and there is nothing to follow here;
Still, I light incense in memory of his passing