Isle of Yew.
There’s a voice
amidst the noise of stars.
Feint, but distinctive.
Sawtoothed in wave
and cackle of ozone.
Sensed among the spark
and spin of planets through
the galaxy, like bats circling
flare-wicked candleflame.
The voice is calling.
Vague, repeating, passionate -
words that want me to understand.
Argh! I just can’t catch the drift:
“… all our youth … ill of you
… oil of hue … isle of yew …”
What is the sky trying to tell me?
Do you hear what it says?
Can YOU work this out?