Wychwood

Mists linger on a frost filled dawn sunlight glimmers on blade and thorn grim, illumined but no not all much remains in decay's dark thrall Slow, certain the true demise proving ground for all things that die the wounds that whiten the spikes that bind the cords that tighten the roots that bind All in darkness is not corrupted all that beckons cannot be trusted beneath the sway of deepest night dark woods awake far from mortal sight 'Through sodden ancient pathways we tread to the home of witch-elms and singing blades of liquid frost dancing like lucid steam-beasts that blow the breath between the hawthorn stems 'Await the signs of our fathers The circle is closed The doors to reality are closed you, me, the gods, and the grinding of our steel The boundary where ancient spectres rise not in torment, but in eternal conquest Into the Wychwood!