by Matthew Broomfield

the lake has a temple amongst the bulrushes
and each morning, it sends minnows
to sacrifice themselves at a muddy altar
as praise to the god called rain

the trees once lamented for fallen trees,
singing sad tree songs and decaying slowly
but now their sorrow is choked by lichen
and they have fallen silent
praying only in the language of the trees

the wind is mad, and worships itself, endlessly
in a thousand howling elegies
to the storms of the past

the toadstools have no god
and wait patiently for the day
when a toadstool king will arise
and swallow the earth

even within the airless boles of the trees
generations of weevils
worship the great weevil god,
who grants heartwood to good weevils
and bark to the bad

the moss, the slime-moulds
the roots of the mountains
all have their own gods, whom they praise
with great praise, and love above all else

and the soft grey light of shropshire
dwells over them all like a hymn


Matthew Broomfield

Hymn by Matthew Broomfield first appeared in Issue 1 of Bare Fiction Magazine (December 2013).

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