Thursday, March 31, 2016

The Oldest Magic, a poem

The Oldest Magic

It was the oldest magic, the unspoken spell
that bound our ancestors before they looked to heaven
and learned of gods and demons, ere they counted stars.
It was a magic born of dark primeval forest,

of prey and preyed upon and of the winds that howled
about the standing stones, a magic of the hunt,
the blooded spear, the fire, of woman and of man.
We cast such spells, once, counting not the rise and set

of sun nor phases of the moon to find our selves.
The ancient magic roars across all nights and we
are there; the hearts of dying beasts, still beating, find
an echo in the savage, hungry drums that call

us to the dance and in the lover's heart that beats
impassioned, pressed against our own. They bind us yet,
the ageless, wordless, yearning spells, this sorcery
of life and death and of creation, this oldest magic.

Stephen Brooke ©2016

messin' about in hexameter 

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