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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