The Cosmic Tree

I often wander
on the heaviest of days
under the sparking beat
of the blacksmiths hammer
through the mornings brittle reeds
over snake skin river beds
naked soles tip toe
amongst the felled and fallen

Sheltering I stand
under the hanging tresses
of an emerald mane
atop the lean veined grey neck
of a sentinel ash
multifaceted leaves pattern
the azure sky
like solar systems clinging
on to the green vines
of a spiral galaxy

They say in celtic lore
that the ash is the centre
of the world
the axis of the universe
the world mother
the tree of life
and we the leaves
that are destined to fall
to feed the roots
to turn the wheel
to reap and sow

I breath with the ash
standing with my ancestors
under the dripping green canopy
stretching from shore to shore
from east to west
where varnished hazelnuts
and the wild red crab apples
fell from drooping branches in droves
onto the musty woodland floor
littered with the domes
of sleek mushrooms
rising up from the dark underworld
into a pale dawn light
and wizened salmon leapt
high from starlit streams
and flashed their gleaming swords
under the splintered moon


I lay down with eyes half closed
with the people
who once bowed heads to the earth
to the tree of life
deep in her green shawl
and broke bread
under her frosted frozen boughs
over the warmth
of a glowing winter’s hearth