THE SHOUT
1
Anchor my mouth in the sun
and let it roar the world’s width
to wake the dreamers
and to find the tides
to race the weed and wrack
and sweep the land clean once more.
A hook is my word
for to catch the shining, leaping warriors.
It is cast out in the waters of the air,
in the brightness of the morning.
It is laced with gold and the promise of blood,
the crunch of bones in the jaws of wolves and foxes,
the ravens collecting the last fading visions of the slain,
The souls, brave souls, looking for new forms in the wild hills.
A hook well tied to reel in the strong eels of wriggling passion
Well knotted to call them back for gold and glory and another day of war.
Deep rooted my tongue in the synaptic shudders of the past.
Deep rooted my buried word grasping the chambers of stone.
Deep rooted so as to throw out long whip-branches
And a sturdy trunk with a thousand branches of meaning.
It is a shelter to the people, a roof and a feast hall.
This tree of persuasion, a fleet sent out by breath,
Each a vessel of contingency, an unassailable fortress of intent.
2
Battle boar sits on my head, roars though my mouth.
A bright god, bright as sun, bright as moon, springs from my tongue.
Its mind and my mind are united.
It is the circle of the land we are sworn to defend.
The circle of time we are to fulfil.
—
simonhlilly 