Tuesday 31 July 2007
Lugh among the people.
Deliberate, in measured steps,
approaching the great circle
leading the people to pray, with the sound of brass trumpets;
Priest or Poet, calling us each to his own, filling our hearts
with the beat of a bodhrán and the sound of the pipes made of thorn
I am the dancer, lost in the rhythm of nature, dancing on the edge
of the world, swinging out over chasms of infinity
lit only by the icecold stars.
Singing a song I heard somewhere
mourning the loss of a woman
of infinite love. I am the Creator of words.
I am the Fiddler. I am the moment when Summer ends,
yet still the sun beats down and the Earth yields.
I am the paradox, of Autumn beginning.1.