There is a timeless Magick here.
Its vibrations cause
the wind to moan
through my pines,
and keen in my maples,
lamenting the loss
of ancient innocence.
It filters the autumn light,
drenching changing leaves
with an orange aura
that pulses
with a mystical life.
The wild grasses flow
before the wind:
waves of a cyclical tide
of constant change.
It infuses bleak winter days
with shifting variations
on white and grey.
Northwest winds howl
arcane incantations,
awakening a harmonic kaleidoscope:
tumbling memories of hope,
of joy, of love.
The spirit of the Land speaks
in its high crystalline Voice,
and, listening, I understand
that from this Magick I was forged,
nurtured and cherished,
and to this sacred Temple
I shall return.
