Anglo-Saxon verse sometimes imagines an inanimate object speaking, a key, an onion, the cross on which Jesus was crucified... This poem, in Old English metre, imagines the thoughts of the housepost - the essential stapol on which the house rests. This is for all those upon whom others depend.
London born now midlands-based, I've been writing on and off my whole life - mythologies, rituals, stories, divinations, - much of it as a pagan. Poetry is an expanding of the lungs, air igniting into blood, condensing into words, breathed out to revive another.
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