The way to Whisperwood, says a tome I once recovered, is
Best found on a starry night in July when the tides of summer
Begin to shift and surge toward the promise of autumn, for this
Path is not common, nor is it found by prayer, meditation,
or fortunes told by old hags reading leaves in teacups.
Such a path spoke to me one night in July when the moon
Shone bright across a quilt of aimless clouds that revealed
The shores of Lake Mirabelle, unreachable Mirabelle, where
Tall, wispy folk stride amongst aspens on the shore, searching
For rare persimmons in which to make their famous wine.
It was then that the cottony clouds parted for moonbeams to
Shine upon a barely traceable trail amongst the pines,
Covered in pine needles, cones, and twigs, graced by raven
Croaks and dove coos, blessed by the rhythmic soughing of
limbs that sing foreign songs never parsed by the minds of men.
And when September touched the oaks, and rattled leaves loose
Like yellow teeth, I packed my bags and said my goodbyes,
For the clouds were full of rain, and the way to Whisperwood
Is rumored to be winding, long, and strange.
“Take care,” said the book, “not to feed the dwilli if you stray.”
To Whisperwood by Lake Mirabelle did I aim, longing to see
The strange, tall folk of that land, folk with three fingers, and white
Hair, folk who talked in whistles and signs, for they have read
The ensorcelled scrolls of elder Damoni, and celebrate the moon
Dances in autumn, granting unearthly wishes as they sway.
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Notes:
1. This poem is inspired by Lovecraft’s dreamland stories.
2. Bloggers like Wolverine Lily and KC Books have egged me on. Thank you 