where the stag

in the dark forest frostland hunted

the light from  the warmer fire beckons

the chase of centuries

the antlered man only renders imaginary foolishness

each root to be marked a memory surefooted

more tricksy than bumbling

not always has john barleycorn died

without a vengeance

working his magic across lines of generations

until the sweat of beer is the eau du jour

every day

there are forces at work here in the darkening days

the snow is falling without warning

the faun has evaded the mannish witch once more

the white doe stands unmoving and certain of time

there's cold mist off of those waves crashing

the sand in the moonlight holds the stars

while the heavy hands of the oceans bleed shining