Nowhere, save
in the Iron Wood,
were the exiled dead
made welcome.

Skulls of men and beasts
were fixed to poles
and twisted trunks,
offerings made
to the rocks
on which they rested,
to the dark pools
in which they bathed.

The Lady of that place,
the Mother of Wolves,
paid heed to their whispers.

Even the source
must have its centre,
a single point
from which
enchantment throbs.

In a tangled grove,
a ring of tumbled stone.

There the Oak-witch
and her flame-haired lover lay.

There they made Gods
to rival those above,
smoke and shadow
to balance their light.

Three times she burned,
three times to rise again
as blood and charcoal,
a taste upon
her husband’s cunning tongue.

Dry ash revived
by steaming life she rose,
a question on her lips.

Where are my children?

Dry ash revived
by steaming life she rose,
red hatred in her heart.

They say she is
the Mother of Monsters,
the Bringer of Anguish.

She does not care
what they call her;
she is beyond all that.

She is the dark womb
in which we die,
and then are born again.

(Shadow Gods and Black Fire is available from Asphodel Press.)