Outside the Door.

The valley lights mask
star and sky, and urge me on.
Upward, ever upward,
to where the horizon joins the sky
and the stars beckon.

The wind, no longer a gentle breeze,
extends its rough caress,
of tree and fern,
to remind me,
that I too am alive.

A shuffle in the grass.
The fox stares indignantly.
What right have you to walk these hills at night?
You do not belong here.

The hoot of the owl,
the restless motion of sheep,
tells the same tale.
Go back, go back,
but I cannot.

A net of stars guide,
but Polaris directs,
and soon,
the Queen of the Night
will light my way.

From beneath my feet
I hear the cry of ancient hills,
a deep rumble of stone upon stone,
accompanied by the somnolent whisper
of long dead forests.

Once we too looked out upon the stars
even as you do, the voices sigh,
their stories echo to the heavens,
tales of times gone by,
seeking but an audience

Come join us, they say,
quench the thirst of your soul in our grasp,