The Singing Man

The cave is dark where Little People hide
in swamps of dense minerals. The water is black
and possessed with blind, eyeless white fishes.
A place where the sun never shines.

I know the old ways.
Not of old ladies stitching pioneer quilts,
Not of collectors who pack around antiques,
But I know the old ways, of spirits walking out of fires.

In the late afternoon in the shadowed mountains,
The Little People work in their cobwebs,
singing to the ancient beat, smelling the sweet grass burn.

Lightning flashes across this feathered sky.
Tonight they will dance for the Northern Lights,
that glow in the autumn heat.

I will sink into your heart
my wild blue jay, for I am singing like you.
Take me away.
I never feared the rolling thunder,
nor the hearts of wild Horses.
It is the only true way. The Old Way.

By Nathan Cowlishaw

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