Sunday, September 14, 2008

Has Anyone a Pen?

In the warm womb of August
a bold trace drew within the night

a self-sleight of tongue, by silence
behoven to what force surrenders

a flat plate by the sun.

Silver, strange and yet it was some
stranger star our eye met, stalling

above leaves of grey mist which awoke
in the depth of a New York dawn

the ermine pulse of a swirling red
flicker and blue lit shawl below

the hollow mouthed source of our
alternative terminal view

caught turning on the radar
as an absent oyster shell -

shifting information some
place else.

The draíocht dawned in hazel of all
coirí filíochta music, and a trinity of light

configured eo fis from fizzing imbas
forosnai, nimble, swift and a tuatha

speck swirling nut-salmon
on an immram, connected to the borders

of our wisdom source six grades above us -
tong a toing mo thuath - throne of ollamh

the Réalta na bhFile: in Abraham's

hebrew the she brew ban-draoi, faced
two cliffs and streaming down, three

cauldrons, sourced its integral ability
within a mind and heart from the ridge-pole

the Cli to Anrtuh gap, dicating what wyrd
will come.

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