Wednesday 23 October 2013

CELTIC BECKONINGS:



From the sun-kissed Spanish banalities,
 Slowly, I cold-tiptoed into Celtic realities,
Beckoning finger of paths & old rowan trees,
Where red foxes peep & red hedgerows freeze.

Misty meanderings of wind-whipped windpipes,
Through fields of old sheep & haw-berries ripe,
Horses, cobbled & coloured, go clipping-clopping,
Kestrels plummet upon rabbits, fast-fall, dropping.

This place where rivers flow through old Welsh hills,
Where in valleys, the ancient dead lie quiet & still,
I wander through grey graveyards of rowan & raven,
Of those beneath tombs who have found their haven.

I roam past mossy pathways & blue hedgerow sloes,
Where daffodils dream & autumn breath now blows,
The places of promised primroses & now musty fungi,
Filling me with misty doubts, asking, “Who on earth am I”.

Give me the cold, the mists, & sky of pewter grey sheen,
Give me their green forests of all that´s hidden & unseen,
Beckoning of deep roots, calling to my old soul of unrest,
Where the Dragon sits deep within my Welsh beating breast.


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