I would be patient as this heath forging its seam of coal below the flint, from ancient woods and stars glowing in skewed alignment. They say a copper idol with wide eyes lies in the barrow, deeper than the fox’s den marked with the waxing moon of a lamb’s skull. Through endless night it waits, faith weathering to verdigris as no one comes to spring it from its grave with a command; words made of fire and ore that no one understands.
An earlier version published in The Lake 2019