Faint and strange on heathen breeze
through woodland fanged with pine,
Áine’s call comes softly sung.
From oak-root’s sacred wreaths,

shaled apart, gritted in layer –
there, at her split-stone altar,
recall what once you knew.
No, child – your language is no use here – 

where elderwood yawns into glen,
leave your words crumbed for the thrushes
in pagan reaches of the blueing dark. 

Breached by song, join the feral few
that lush their step with heather
and drink of wicked dew;

let the young fern’s newborn coil unfurl –
and dowsed from some aphotic, clinging depth within,
let rise your wordless answer.

[Kataryna Zharkovna is a poet from Serbia, grown in Canada, honed in Siberia. Her work can be found or forthcoming in magazines such as Sundial, Discretionary Love, Neologism, Mindfork and others. When not writing, she spends time befriending swans, painting botanical diagrams and taking care of two charming elven children.]