I.
Where factories
are washed into the earth,

the old mill in the thrutch
over-run by rolling rapids,

white waters stir
in a wind-swept cauldron.

A voice between drops of water,
lichen and rocks

offers a glimpse
of another piece of world;

a handful of light,
sarcophagus and broken chair,

scattered flowers
offerings of souls

worshipful in a shared space,
remains of fairies and giants.

II.
When I think I have left
the voice calls me back

to speak my testimony
in that memory-place

cleft between dripping water,
rocks and lichen:

the fairies chapel
I will make my home.