In the midst of Europe’s wooded lands,
where the canopy lies vast,
there are gaps in the verdant green from which
rise peaks of bundled thatch
who throw, from out their chimneyed-hearths,
black-sooted smoke – eruptive –
to scar the tree-breathed air. T’is here
the folk of tales do live.
Here – once ‘n ever on a time – amongst
the wanderings of wolves;
beneath the buzzard’s broad, unbeating wings;
within the woods’ myth-hold –
a small community of women, men,
‘n children is composed.
The wind… The wind… Germanic kin
by fence ‘n wall enclosed.
Kindred of kind kinetic, formed
from th’flux of in ‘n forth –
the Slavic east ‘n the Celtic west;
Iberian ‘n Norse.
So, set’s the scene; the story starts:
Oh, once upon a time,
a brother, with his sister, sauntered
home, reciting rhyme…
Image credit – NY Books
william altoft 