Cernunnos

I am in the silence of the hunting cat’s footfall;
I am in the echo of an owl’s haunting call.
I am in the storm-blown wind that tears among the trees;
I am in the fall-hued leaves discarded by the breeze.
I am in the air that lifts the raven’s gliding flight;
I am in the purpose of the pack hunting by night.
I am in the coney’s start that presages its bolt;
I am in the form and lair, the den and hive and holt.

Mine are the ettin fells, which mock a puny human scale;
Mine the lush vistas of sublime and fertile vales;
Mine the forest glades shading dappled and wary deer;
Mine the earth’s raw bones that form the rivers’ dams and weirs.
Mine the coastal cliffs that, decaying, destroy homes;
Mine the weeds and bramble that reclaim old aerodromes.
Mine the lands that farmers work to clear and grow a crop;
Mine the things that give them grief and makes their task non-stop.