Reviewing the poem in yesterday’s post, which is a poem I originally posted some time ago, I though I needed to reel it in a bit, pull it back. Here’s a revision that may be further revised.
Old Loon of the Wood
It’s said he sings to trees, prays for their roots.
Others confess he mingles with elves
and tends to the wolves, healing their wounds,
scratching their aches. His beard, red as autumn,
hangs long and thick. His eyes glow as green
as an oak’s s summer leaf. He walks with a limp,
his shoulders are hunched, and his hat
like a chimney, adorns his broad head.
The birds call him father, or that’s what is told,
and the trees kindly call him sweet child.
Fairies and faes sing soft hymns as his beard passess by,
while trolls shout Gromtinker when they’ve need
of his smile to warm the shadows that embroider
the wood’s cool heart. Thus, he steps through a day,
knitting breezes and gales to the songs that he hums,
blessing dragon and flower and fang,
finding home in the breadth of his stride.