Lá an Dreoilín

Happy belated Wren Day, everyone!



Before the birth of summer’s death there flows
a northern hint of autumn’s doleful hymn
upon the dancing streams of playful airs
that whisper lullabies to root and grain,
as verdant wine is sapped, a river blown
into the season’s turning.  Mourning swims
in swollen ranks as harvest’s bounty, fair
fruition of the mother’s birthing pains,
is culled and gathered; life from death, a rose
enacted (elegy for time), a grim
reminder of the beauty found where e’er
the holy lembas bread is broke in twain –
the sun intoning light in alban sound,
a paean to the blood of Heaven’s Hound

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Bright flames leap high into the thawing
azure skies beyond the growing, withered
glow.  The final traces of the cold have fled
into the warming ground and brighter
hours saunter lazily on greening avenues
in settled, turbulent arrangements,
intertwining in an orgy of the senses’
union – Holy Dance. Fervor is imbued
with love and light as arms are raised in summer’s
wild joy.  A course, a path, is laid
between the blazes’ pairing, meandering
through love and life, a sacred mating.  Awe
induces passion in the sheen of nature’s noon
as glory’s writ within the night in holy, ancient runes.

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As winter’s rage o’erwhelms the silent earth
a whiff of life, a whisper, is exhaled
beyond the grip of ice on rimy firths –
A herald of the death of sorrow’s Hel.
She strains and groans against the fading veil
for in the twilight glow the prime is birthed
between the knees of rolling mounds and vales
to usher in the realm of love and mirth.
He drops amidst the blushing waters’ flow,
she pulls him to her life-supporting chest:
upon the swollen bosom of her hills
He sucks and feeds, a helpless, squalling bairn.
As darkness ebbs, the swelling morning grows
upon the wholly crimson lamb and rose.

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Naked watchers stand as silent, holy congregants –
skeletal formations, planted stoic, tall, and still;
calm sentinels in somber dress, heralds of the chill
that comes in dead of night, with death’s silent chants.
Amidst the boughs there blows a mistral, howling shrill
cries of boiling blood, to freeze blood’s marrow and bones
as fading suns glow pale upon exposed branch and stone
that lie inert in everlasting sleep upon the hills.
The earth is dying, sleeping in her dark winter’s throne,
succumbing to entombments stupefying license,
whimpering with dry wilted sobs, submitting silence –
held enthralled before the terrifying specter moans.
Bereft of bird and leaf, of means to sing in valence:
naked sleepers sorrowing as vile congregants

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She comes in whispers, glimmers dancing softly
on the waltzing breeze in scented hues that
sing a gleaming melody in crimson
waves upon the floating arbor seas.
Behind her train the vespers evensong
of birds is raised and fades within the shrinking light
that glows in soft and tender swells along
the edge of night. The warmth of summer seeps
beyond the reach of live, invigorating
airs. The chill of sorrow’s hope lies weeping
on the dying lands; hopes to germinate,
to sprout in meditative, waking sleep
beneath the winter’s lovely, frozen curse
that falls upon the sphere of terra’s browning hearse.

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Golden streams of liquid light flow thick and hot
through tepid seas forgot within the march
parading on the grounds of time’s remorseless trot
within the life of space.  A shrewd démarche,
a haze lies thick amidst the sullen boughs
weighed down by verdant arms made drunk by shining
light.  A hush befalls the rotting thens and nows,
replaced by buzzing soon-to-bees in holy shrines
resplendent in their colored gowns and smocks.
Dun monks, they wilt defrocked beneath the sparkling
rays descended to give life and thence to walk
with death; before his ephemeral cold and darkness
presses on this life of light.  A Sleep.  A seed
pressed deep into the earth- a molten, flowing mead.

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In darkness lies midwinter’s lonely road
beneath the bleak discriminating erne.
He pads midst silent seas of snow and firn
and stride upon the troglodytic wold.
The sun grows shy before his slow advance,
the moon tenaciously asserts her berth.
Her glow illuminates the raven’s mirth
and floods the season’s gelid, hoary manse.
Amidst the dead of night is birth the morn
when wintertide is at his fullest flow.
The bitter winds across the tillage show
the brutal, bloody path to glory’s bourn.
The solstice gleam approaches in the tomb
dispelling night with light in heaven’s womb.