Can I Bask In The Meadow? Poem by Mark Heathcote

Can I bask in the meadow
of her sunlit shade
breathe in the musk tomorrow
that holds her golden name.

Can I walk in her garden?
Along her interwoven rivers of pain,
where the surface of a woodland
mark's a hollow earthen grave.

Can I fly and hoot like an owl
beneath lichen star-lightened eaves
till the clawing hands of ancient-winters
claw back the remainder of her red rowan leaves.

Can I kneel at that altar?
The alter of her voice
when all but the darkling wilderness calls-
will our hearts echo? Rejoice-rejoice-rejoice.