A Sonnet for Whitbarrow Moor.


Soft is the wind on Whitbarrow this day,
As if it’s breath just blesses as it flows,
Follows sheep-tracks to ancient groves
Where the wild orchids and the juniper grows.
That’s where I burned old wounds in fire
And laid me down in arms of sculpted oaks.
As after that midge-ridden solstice rise
At Swindale Stones; it seemed the rising sun
Had pierced me with some wild, transforming touch.
I had to stop my ears up to the screaming
Of the grass, and by the fallen larch,
I sensed the terror of the Over-Soul:
A single, vast, and acute sense of pain.
In spectral mist howling out Thelema!