THE WILD GOD

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table. He is awkward and does not know the ways of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver. His voice makes vinegar from wine.

When the wild god arrives at the door you will probably fear him. He reminds you you of something dark that you might have dreamt. Or the secret you do not wish to be shared.

He will not ring the doorbell. Instead he scrapes with his fingers leaving blood on the paintwork. Though primroses grow in circles round his feet.

You do not want to let him in. You are very busy. It is late, or early, and besides...... You cannot look at him straight because he makes you want to cry.

The dog barks. The wild god smiles and holds out his hands. The dog licks his wounds and leads him inside.

The wild god stands in your kitchen. Ivy is taking over your sideboard. Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades and wrens have begun to sing an old song in the mouth of your kettle.

‘I haven’t much’ you say and give him the worst of your food. He sits at the table bleeding. He coughs up foxes. There are otters in his eyes.

When your wife calls down You close the door and tell her it’s fine. You will not let her see the strange guest at your table.

The wild god asks for whisky and you pour a glass for him, then a glass for yourself. Three snakes are beginning to nest in your voice box. You cough.

Oh, limitless space. Oh, eternal mystery. Oh, endless cycles of death and birth. Oh, miracle of life. Oh, the wondrous dance of it all.

You cough again, Expectorate the snakes and Water down the whisky, Wondering how you got so old And where the passion went.

The Wild god reaches into a bag Made of moles and nightingale skin. He pulls out a two reeded pipe, Raises an eyebrow And all the birds begin to sing.

The fox leaps into your eyes Otters rush from the darkness The snakes pour through your body. Your dog howls and upstairs, Your wife both exults and weeps at once.

The wild god dances with your dog.
You dance with the sparrows.
A white stag pulls up a stool
And bellows hymns to enchantments.
A pelican leaps from chair to chair.

In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs.
Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields.
Everyone dreams the words to long forgotten songs.
The hills echo and the grey stones ring
with laughter and madness and pain

In the middle of the dance
The house takes off from the ground.
Clouds climb through the windows,
Lightning pounds it’s fists on the table.
The moon leans in through the window.

The wild god points to your side.
You are bleeding heavily.
You have been bleeding for a long time,
Possibly since you were born.
There is a bear in the wound.

Why did you leave me to die?'
Asks the wild god and you say:
'I was busy surviving.
The shops were all closed.
I didn't know how. I'm sorry'

Listen to them:
The fox in your neck and
The snakes in your arms and
The wren and the sparrow and the deer....
The great un-nameable beasts
In your liver and your kidneys and your heart....

There is a symphony of howling.
A cacophony of dissent.
The wild god nods his head and
You wake on the floor holding a knife,
A bottle and a handful of fur.

Your dog is asleep on the table.
Your wife is stirring, far above.
Your cheeks are wet with tears.
Your mouth aches from laughter or shouting.
A black bear is sitting by the fire.

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine
And brings the dead to life
TH

What would the world be, once bereft,
Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.
Gerard M Hopkins

If you cut down one tree you must plant five.
We must always be alert and thoughtful
so that we repair any damage we do to the earth.
That is Yagna.
Satish Kumar.

One the penalties of an ecological education is that one lives alone in a world of wounds. Aldo Leopold

Give me a land of boughs in leaf,
A land of trees that stand,
Where trees are fallen, there is grief,
I love no leafless land.

William Henry Spurgeon Rolls.
A Yorkshireman.
Served with the 2/5 Highland Lt Infantry Royal Scots.
Killed in action on the 28th August 1917.
No known grave. Rest in Peace.

For the future