Dark pines rise into the night,
edged with silver air
and winter's promise, crisp and keen
and chilling, as I fare
into this land where mountains grow
beneath the Hunters' Moon.
The thin clouds race across the sky;
the wind's a mournful tune.
Higher up, there lies a valley,
hollow as my heart,
hungry as the mouths of lovers
knowing they must part.
Forest stands as walls around
these paths, the moonlit rime
glistening like Heaven's stars,
all come to light my climb.
Does a lonesome lake still hold
its mirror to the sky
amid the tall veridian pines
that know the wind and sigh
to feel its careless, cold caress?
Would I hear the call
of the Great Horned Owl that hunts
and haunts across night's fall?
I knew a cabin, once, now dark
and empty as my soul,
when love and Summer was our world,
when my heart was whole,
and all I am and was still waits
there in reflections deep.
Now, the frost lies on this land;
my way grows ever steep.
To look into those depths again
and deeper yet, I seek,
and rest where I once knew myself,
where only life would speak.
Dark pines stand in silhouette
against ascendant light;
beneath the Hunters' Moon I find
remembered trails of night.
Stephen Brooke ©2011
Rather longer and more of a story than my typical obscure metaphor-oriented poem. Of course, the story can be seen as one big ol' metaphor too if you wish. This sort of thing does take a bit more careful crafting than some. It certainly didn't roll off my fingertips and onto the screen!
And, yeah, it is still an early draft, pretty much, so it could change. Not that much though, I suspect.
Why forests and cold and lakes and stuff like that? I didn't think about it when I started writing but I've been reading Jack London stories lately. Some of that must have seeped into my brain.