Becoming lost, losing the stars
And the beloved cardinal points
Straight lines of lych roads
Bent by the boles, dissolved by roots
Watched by the hidden, countless eyes
I drift from my measured course
My cartography rendered obsolete
From my borders of sleep
To these lowered branches of cloud
Everything I have known and loved
Has come to their bitter end
Pulled to the mists of ephemeral fear
Towered in tons of wood and moss
Words become crushed, splintered, gnawed
Here, this place of perpetual gloaming
The spirits no longer desist
No longer hide their ethereal faces
To assist, waist deep, in the stream
Pulling my sodden body to leaves
To loam, from which, my face I lift
Stripped to my form, I have no place
Heartbreak is not here, no place for despair
Cathedral trees accepting no prayer
To be lost in the wildwood
Is to be lost at sea
Claimed by the earth, in nature's lament
It's silence to be heard and obeyed now
Becoming lost, forgotten, returned to dust
© 2021 Andrew Doughty. All Rights Reserved.
Andrew Doughty is a 43-year-old poet from Lincolnshire, UK. He takes inspiration from his convoluted relationships with nature, love and death, and his own mind. This is his third inclusion in the Crow Calls series.