A new poem by Michael Glover

The Sacred Grove

Up and down the sacred grove,
Seeing nothing, craving much,
Still they walk – they cannot but.
The sacred grove has bound their feet.

The sacred grove has bound their feet.
Their eyes see only what they see -
A desert, surging at their backs.
They can’t go on. And yet they must.

They can’t go on. And yet they must.
Still they walk – they cannot but -
A crowd too numberless to count,
Bound wrist to wrist, joined foot to foot.

Bound wrist to wrist, joined foot to foot,
Saying little, thinking much,
Still they walk – they cannot but,
Treading an earth too seldom touched.