'We don't want no burrowing under'
He says as he draws a rune of salt upon the floor
His cockney voice holding a menace
I really don't like
Who is this guy?
Where did he come from?
Something isn't right

He looks like a thug from London's East end
All shaved head and attitude
My alarm bells ring
'Who the hell are you'
I say to this 'man'
No longer wishing to be sealed in

He stops the ritual, puts down the jar of salt
Turns to face me and I make ready
Something tells me I should be scared
But strangely I'm not
For protection isn't protection
When you're locked in with the devil

'I'm here to help you' he says but I've heard that one before
I'm no debutante to this game
So I do the only thing I can
'Hold out your hands!' I say
And he holds them out
Eyes meeting my own
As I pour out the salt

I half expect him to scream in pain
Writhe his agony out on the floor
I remember lore, turn my coat inside out
He flickers and stretches but no more
A poem in my head gets louder
Distracts me with a song of Norway
As I tell him 'no way' and make my escape.

My eyes open to the dark
The calm of my room
I take a quick look around
No sign of the man
No menacing sound
Nothing but sweet holy ground.

This poem was inspired by a dream I had in which I was sitting on top of a burial mound with an older version of myself.

'Stop.' she says as I reach for my drum
I look up in surprise
Her hand on my wrist makes me dumb
Around us the wind blows
As she looks in my eyes
Blue eyes to blue
Old eyes to new
Vision obscured by hair in face


The sun beats down on us
As I look into those eyes
Blue shining with warmth at my confusion
We sit on the mound
On that windswept moor
Our clothes are ancient

Hair dressed with feathers and bones
In a place beyond time
Where we came to reach out
Look for an ancestral line.

We came across the moor
And I carried the load
As all good apprentices do
We climbed the mound
green against gold
Ancient footprints to new.

I look to her again,
My teacher,
Myself in years to come
And I ask her why.

'Follow the wind' she says
'Let it carry you where you need
Drums are for those that sit indoors
But the wind is a gift to such as we.'

So closing my eyes I do as I'm bid
The wind a pain in my ears
Then comes a song as pure as the drum
I yawn deep
then I'm gone.