Wednesday Sonnet: The Stream (I)

Deep in the sylvan forest, should you push
Beyond the spot where die the hunter’s path
And pilgrim’s trail, you’ll find an epitaph
For the last brave explorer of the bush.
And further still there is a cave, where crones
In tapestries of skin-roll knit men’s lives
And druids, out of oak-leaves, make their wives.
But past them all, up mountains, where the stones
Are smooth as zephyrs, there’s a silver spring.
It’s so far up you can not speak, breathe, nor,
Indeed, sing: there’s no elves, and no birds sing.
Not even they could drink and evermore
Know innocence. It streams in everything
And feeds our every dream – it’s the before.