Post by Blackbird on Nov 28, 2005 17:05:00 GMT -1
Sorry to Nikolai Tolstoy for this one - I'm rereading 'The Coming of the King', and was particularly struck by a paragraph of prose. I liked it so much that I felt a terrible urge to convert this masterly writing into a crap bit of poetry 
So many apologies to him - regardless of which, I shall have fun singing this.
The Antlered Host.
I sing of the grey-bearded man of the woods
His hat made of fir sprigs and his coat of fine moss
He dresses the ash trees in shimmering grey
The pine in his green and the white froth of may
He covers the beech trees all in golden laughter
The holly in crow-green, her berries come after.
The man of the woods passes under the trees
And scatters spring flowers for nectar-drunk bees
Primroses pale as the moon when he’s full
Cornflowers blue as the tide that he pulls
Dandelions yellow like sun in noon’s glory
And cowslips that nod to the springtimes bright story.
He plucks out a switch from a rambling rose
And herds the wild creatures down shade dappled roads
Soft breeze stirs the leaves as he sings out to them
To bring them from meadow, from forest and fen
While bees drowse in clover and pine scents the air
He calls deer from coppice and fox out of lair.
He leads the red deer herds down paths lined with may
His wand moves the fallen trees blocking their way
And traces a bridge over rivers that teem
With wise spotted salmon and brown trout and bream
Birds rise up singing from treetop and briar
Their songs trill and tremble like notes plucked on lyre.
The antlered host halt at the richest of meadows
Their necks reaching downward for sweet shoots of heather
They feast upon lichens that shroud carven stone
All spirals and cups scraped with antler and bone
And on the black lake swoops a troop of swans sighing
To rest after long weeks of northerly flying.
With apologies to Nikolai Tolstoy
© Blackbird Hollins November 2005
So many apologies to him - regardless of which, I shall have fun singing this. The Antlered Host.
I sing of the grey-bearded man of the woods
His hat made of fir sprigs and his coat of fine moss
He dresses the ash trees in shimmering grey
The pine in his green and the white froth of may
He covers the beech trees all in golden laughter
The holly in crow-green, her berries come after.
The man of the woods passes under the trees
And scatters spring flowers for nectar-drunk bees
Primroses pale as the moon when he’s full
Cornflowers blue as the tide that he pulls
Dandelions yellow like sun in noon’s glory
And cowslips that nod to the springtimes bright story.
He plucks out a switch from a rambling rose
And herds the wild creatures down shade dappled roads
Soft breeze stirs the leaves as he sings out to them
To bring them from meadow, from forest and fen
While bees drowse in clover and pine scents the air
He calls deer from coppice and fox out of lair.
He leads the red deer herds down paths lined with may
His wand moves the fallen trees blocking their way
And traces a bridge over rivers that teem
With wise spotted salmon and brown trout and bream
Birds rise up singing from treetop and briar
Their songs trill and tremble like notes plucked on lyre.
The antlered host halt at the richest of meadows
Their necks reaching downward for sweet shoots of heather
They feast upon lichens that shroud carven stone
All spirals and cups scraped with antler and bone
And on the black lake swoops a troop of swans sighing
To rest after long weeks of northerly flying.
With apologies to Nikolai Tolstoy
© Blackbird Hollins November 2005