Feast Upon The Village Green

I am the nest from which the great blue heron springs.
I am the stones upon which stinging ice-churned runnel sings.
And there, those fires hot from which the Phoenix rare takes wings.
I am embers, scintillating coals, and living, giving hot and feeding.

They said I was a pale heretic and laid me down to rest,
outside the white-washed churchyard walls, outside the ruddy fold.
So I just let my hot blood flow, rich-red to feed their grass,
upon that emerald sward where they did murder me so cold.
And I do let my bones peek from beneath the curtain of my skin
and thus do I me nourish for every living thing herein
with my authentic self and my unconquerable song,
my passion unquenchable and my me a sacred throng

of birth from death and life lept up in winds, in rain and dew
I am nest, stone and embers singing always clear for you.
and thus it is unholy ground is clean, hallowed once more,
and every living thing eat, drink in ever opened door
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