Chasm

In the Shadow of the Chasm

A dark fissure lies beneath the old county wood,
Its sides carved like the throat of a weather‑worn whale.
The mist gathers in the crevices, quiet and good,
A silver veil that drifts over the distant dale.

Footsteps echo off the steep, damp stone wall,
A rhythmic pulse that the wind will echo back.
Even the brook that runs by bends to heed the call,
Its waters hush, as though touching the chasm’s black.

The sky, a bruised deep blue, clasps the edges tight,
Eclipsing light that once danced on loam and leaf.
People from villages wander, drawn by the night,
Seeking the truth hidden within that vacuum of belief.

In this abyss where history and myth intertwine,
The chasm breathes its own ancient, aching rhyme.
With all its splenic splendour, it stands – fiercely benign,
A place where our stories, like roots, grow and unwind.