The Quest

I look, into the eyes of the sheep.
She encourages me, to dive down deep.
She chews the cud, and stamps her feet.
Wanting me to announce myself, with my own rhythm beat.

I wake in the night, and stare outside.
The rain has gone, but the stars not quite.
A veil there is, across the sky.
But a twinkle still pierces, my own unique eye.

For a portal has opened, and I can clearly see.
A clarity through a window, all the constellations and me.
All that I am is hear, near and far.
If affirmation was needed, there’s a shooting star.

I long for the sun, and the warmth to come.
So I can honour myself, and all with the drum.
To create a spark, and light a fire.
In each direction of course, rekindling my desire.

Gold and black, the totems are many.
Butterfly, hover fly, caterpillar, two a penny.
The star birds have come, and my spirits soar.
There are crosses upon the sky, my heart begins to roar.

Shapes in the cloud, to the East are seen.
A crescent, a horn, a stag’s head I would deem.
Back to the tent, there are musings a plenty.
A standing stone is born, and incense very scenty.

I sit, my back upon the tree.
Such a beauty from a distance, just thee and me.
In twig, in branch, in trunk, I love.
Placing my arms around you, I feel supported from above.

The daddy long legs is here, a symbol from another quest.
Like thistle, foxglove, slug, panther and the rest.
But to the golden orb, is where I must look.
To a huge swallow on the wing, a herald of the book.

I journey to the centre, to birth pleasure from the pain.
And yet another message comes, in the lining there again.
This time, fast fuelled fighter jet.
Not like passenger this morn, that’s another set.

There’s a goat-man on the hillside, smiling this way.
A buzzard flies South to North, to him I must pray.
His screeches, rise upon the upward draught.
Where raven’s realm croaks, like a spiritual raft.

The next sign that comes, is a bloody big splodge.
In humour I laugh, joy in my lodge.
Those black birds are at it, continuing with the climb.
To the pen I must drop, until another rich time.

Ash, rowan, sycamore, willow.
Thoughts drift to me, from my altar and pillow.
That orange great E, upon the white fleece.
Won’t leave me alone, or give me much peace.

Calling the shots, they dictate my next plan.
A baa from the bracken, walk, stomp or just pan.
There’s a rainbow where dawn breaks, and yet it’s still eve.
Swifts dart along valley floor, so close I barely believe.

A little bird comes, and tweets from the bush.
A flaxen gleam upon the hillside, as night starts to hush.
Bright satsuma against the blue sky, a chill wind doth blow.
Lifting my wings, I fly, and go with the flow.

My hairy friend is back, now silver and bronze.
I almost stepped on him, bringing down my tonnes.
All wriggled up in a spiral, he stopped me in my track.
Unfurling form his curl, he’s off to hit the sack.

An eerie cry rings out, from a circling bird up high.
Not one but there’s two now, of the same flock or herd in sky.
Masters of the hunt, when looking for their prey.
It’s time to snuggle up, and bring an end to this day.

Yet still there’s a heron now, rising form the river..
A full moon is on the up, all bar a sliver
Winking at me from the canopy, inviting me into the mystery.
Less questions in my mind, of my own forgotten history.

In the last throws of the light.
A moth bursts forth a-flight. 
Dancing upon the thistle spike.
To a melodic thump of might.

My paper now, is all a glow.
Luminescent, to the backward throw.
A distant torch, is seen a part.
Of the heavenly body, tugging with my hart.

The wild wind has come, disturbing me with hurt.
Like the Hayoka at work, down in the yurt.
I dream of a horse race, where the leader is well clear.
But there is trouble on the course, he is thwarted, oh dear!

The buffeting of the tent poles, entices me outside.
Where Orion and King Cepheus rule, no-one else beside.
They call upon the warrior, the mighty king himself.
Guardian, protector, hunter, chief of animal health.

More visions come of Great Dane, and a flighty Jacob flock.
On rising in the morning, the ovine have run amok.
Sheep have come and eaten, my centre and my South.
Scoffing all the berries, bar 1 or 2 escaping mouth.

It is clear where the work is needed, for the freedom to come.
In flexibility of emotion, curiosity, adventure, awe-some.
Immediately there is a Lepidoptera, basking next to my chair.
An opportunity for me to look a while, and just simply stare.

For there he sits, wings open, soaking the warmth of the sun.
I can park right next to him, and energise all for fun.
Adorned he is in umber, burnt sienna, sunshine yellow.
For me it is just a pleasure, to be with this little fellow.

And then there is this tiny fly, of similar colour and nature.
Pitching upon my written prose, aware of the bigger picture.
In sunlight too is where he finds his natural home.
Crouched small and humble, a new place to come and roam.

Sat looking East we are together, like much of this journey’s core.
Praying for the clouds to break, to be bathed again once more.
And in a moment he is gone, one spring, one jump, one leap.
To another place he’s alighted, but his memory I will keep.

And so it is to all fours, down amongst the shit.
Just like my woollen friend, who dumped at night, one hit.
But now my attention’s drawn, to every blade of grass there is.
To every barb and seed I see, every insect in green mist.

For here there is an unnoticed sight, minuscule red eggs.
Lined out across a very fine leaf, as if attached with pegs.
And then there is this blue-bell, or lilac to be true.
Ever the beauty in my space, adding yet another hue.

Raven comes to call me, from the place of North and West.
So near he is this time, I honour him with my best.
Then settles wasp and fly, emblazoned with the noir et jaune.
Colours that are ever coming to me, midnight, noon or dawn.

I meditate upon my shield, my monarch of the glen. 
Images come to me of royalty, of women and of men.
My flowers rock and sway, to a wind that blasts with might.
But I stand tall with trust, for now I have more fight.

Now to whittle a few hours away, upon the fallen wood.
Twirl the talking stick, walk reverse, do you think I should?
There’s freedom in this other way, something quite contrary.
And there within the stalks, lies black and scarlet fairy.

I watch her use the stems as roads, alternative tiny highways.
I realise now I must tread this path, as my own soul bi-way.
For here I am the man I wish to be, to do what I flippin want.
This is my space, my life, my water from the open font.

But here there is a thunder crack, the rain begins to lash.
Have I upset the code, taboo, behaving rather rash?
There’s a leak now in my lodge, a splish, a splash or two.
I decide to take a leak myself, and hope no need to poo.

But if I were to do so, I’m sure the fly of horse would come.
As he has done this alvo, when pitched upon my tum.
The underworld is opening up to me, down amongst the mirth.
My spirit begins to speak with me, not heard since kin or birth.

A shepherd gathers flock together, one man and faithful dog.
I spot a sign upon the mountain, lifting all the fog.
Tonight I heard a fable, of hunter, king and queen.
And there within the gorse lies Cassiopaea, clearly to be seen.

The unmistakeable W, courts marriage of boy and girl.
Sheep upon the landscape, giving me the very pearl.
And now the lunar skyline, is ablaze with peachy globe.
Whispers in the breeze come to me, caressing me at the lobe.

For here there is a peace within, of sun replaced by moon.
Both apparent in the East and South, giving me of their boon.
Tis the masculine and the feminine, where I seek balance at my core.
The physical and the spiritual, to which I both must enter door.

At night I dream again of marriage, 25 years to be exact.
Hardly seeming credible, for partners 21 and 22, a fact.
Written in silver bubble, upon the greying cloud.
The message is barely visible, let alone to be read out loud.

I ask the man called Beckham, a celebrity in his own right.
If he knows the meaning of this invitation, this very night.
There is a celebration to be had, as there’s an 18th birthday too.
Two events at the same time, it could be a hell of a do.

I also dream of three women, involved in a marathon race.
Two out in front and one behind, but she’s got the devastating pace.
Tis the third girl that is the winner, to ring the homeward bell.
To scorch up the opposition, and give out triumphant yell.

The night is framed with calling, of feral fox and chorus crow.
Let alone the bloody sheep, getting ever closer now.
Tis time to rise and see what’s next, upon the coming day.
To once more go to well, and see what nature’s got to say.

In morn I have this question, of what reverse C means to me.
Evident in threaded bag, and pube upon my pee.
Tis an emblem that has been here, from very origin and start.
From sunshine in the sky, of ear, amulet or looping part.

And so the answers come, with horseshoe on the tree.
And the sheep that are ever present, not one or two but three.
There’s a star within the crescent moon, upon my beloved ash.
And a sea of flowers apparent, upon the hide I have as sash.

Thoughts rise upon the Turkish flag, of dream centres I have seen.
Of Islam, Appaloosian, and all the spirit plants it seems.
For rose, and foxglove and thistle too, they create this very shape.
To compliment my stag and sun, to be worn upon my cape.

I delve upon the deer, I can see he starts to eat.
All the medicinal plants, he stumbles on to meet.
To the flowers I must go, and learn of this very art.
As a buzzing bee insists, injecting ear with potent dart.

And then amid dew drop belles, where thistle seed is strewn.
I’m reminded of my fertility, and my own authentic tune.
There’s magenta in the knapweed, and sandy coloured flies to find.
There’s a boat upon my East, and happy times to mind.

On back I sink to ground, and to whispy clouds I look.
I see hoof prints in the cumulus, and ideas begin to cook.
Another horn is there now, and face of billy goat.
And then the copter comes, a great dragonfly of note.

He disturbs me in my reading, visiting time and time again.
The shamanic way being made known to me, upon the dale and fen.
I wonder what can possibly, bring this story to a close.
A thought constantly with me, one the universe does pose.

Once more round the circle, where black slug is met and seen.
Patience is the message, before a great stag has come and been.
And then there is this gigantic cross, made up of trails of vapour.
And perhaps another sheep or goat, just adding to this caper.

When finally the clarity comes, it hits me in the iris.
Stood upon a shoulder bag, of a fellow seeker and aspirist.
There it is the stag I seek, stood amongst the flowers.
Of pink and gold in crescent shape, a man at the height of his powers.

And yet there’s still one more, awesome, mesmeric sight.
Of swallow and that of house martin, swirling in full flight.
Dance and dance and dance they do, in spectacular display.
Round and round and round they go, at frolic and of play.

And then the heron flies back in, landing plumb South West.
What a quest I’ve had, surely its been the best.
And if my name weren’t Running Deer, I’d have to have a think.
It could be that of Swallowtail, I’d better have a drink.

​By Simon Blackler
Copyright © Simon Blackler 2021

​If you care to comment on this poem at all and the emotions that it brings up for you then please feel free to do so below.

The Call To Adventure

Shamanic Practice