Here Be Dragons

On the whole
the larger the dragon
the slower its sense of time

there are hillside dragons who
take a whole season just to
blink
a sleepy eye

there are mountain dragons who
take a century to yawn and stretch their wintered wings

some can slumber for millennia
some – so it is told – for aeons

Greenwich Mean Time means nothing to them

but they always know
when the human realm is well and truly
splattering its way up shit creek
for they can smell our collective sickness
souring the land

the forests, the rivers, the breeze
curdling the myriad fae-colours of their earth-cradled dreams

O! mortal little human being
strip off those civilised shoes and socks
and take a blacksmith’s hammer to that
ever-buzzing phone
and that
ever-ticking clock
and let the soles of your feet
stand naked
and silent
upon this sacred, timeless ground

Can you feel that sound?

Can you feel that sound?

That’s the sound of myriad dragons waking