The Shrine

Trying my hand at descriptive poetry.

Through daylight's gaze, this is what the eye perceives,

Sunlight streaking through verdant overhead tree leaves,

Scented blood of fowl carried by howling wind's sound,

Carcass of sacrifice strewn across ancient burial ground.

Feet long since turned to dust evident in hardened earth,
Proof of past prayers sent up for crop, for health, for good birth,

Wards hung on crooked branches marked with softened clay,

Keeping playful spirits and vengeful demons alike at bay.

As the great Anyanwu* begins his descent in the West,

Birds flock back hurriedly to babies waiting in nest,

The air grows colder and thinner to the lung,

And they all begin to sing in uniform song.

Darkness falls and a harsh voice will scream out "RISE!",

Causing each ancestor to spring from where he lies,

Discussing the woes of the village in loud and terrible tones,

Staffs hammering into the ground, with fire and brimstone.

The summoning priest listens and responds to the cantankerous debate,

Quickly hushing them all upon spotting a youthful pair on date,

Old spirits quietly smiling, unseen as they are gazed straight through,

Seen in blissful ignorance as a mad man speaking in tongues, to the two.

Author's Note

*Anyanwu is an Igbo sun deity.