My gong hanging from ye old oak tree,

respecting its soul from a past memory,

much shining light so angelic and warm,

once washed away the coven of scorn.

 

With a passing Hare as quick as you like,

stopping to share fine tales of delight.

Is this the start of a gathering wood,

does the man in Green show up. Perhaps he should.

 

Softly bark from behind much shade,

does turn about, all chilled on parade,

just as I thought a deer looks across,

Quan Yin I am, from a voice gentle like floss.

 

Now numbers swell as tweet not human,

flies in low, all dark like a Raven.

Perhaps I'll begin and see what comes,

no shouts Merlin transforming feathers to thumbs,

 

Ooh, is this the command from a toiling soul,

don't be daft, snorts Ashtar the Mole.

I'm the closest it gets to nibbling your jam,

Yet you see me not as you walk this fine land.

 

Ascended or not you are welcome all here,

from the smallest of creature and greatest so dear.

Yes, your presence a glory as I gong for you all,

this fine summer day under oak tree not small.

© Emrys Skye 2020