Now, come dear children, let us away for the pleasure,
Deep the night of time then, i’ll light the long-stick candle,
Bright the cavern of sleep over the black stair sky.
Rungs of sleep and dreams, the verticals of midnight
i am the tale weaver, i read from the barkcloth paper.
Once upon lived a wrinkled man in the descending forest,
The white dog snow, the shuffling of years, and the old smiles,
Not far from the dare of hills, dart of rivers, the deep pools.
Above, the grey flocked clouds, below, winter in the bread fields
Looming weather spun from the wizard’s wheel, dark and cold.
In his cottage, the ladle dipped in the water-wattle, mazy cauldron,
Spell spoken, nagging the whisper of the acre wood and shadow fold,
“Feadóg an lon dubh , caoin an giorria , dorcha spéir agus scamall”
(Whistle of the blackbird, cry of the hare, dark sky and cloud).
Drizzled dim on the wheel by the wrinkled hand, the taste of wind blows
What of an old sorcerer among the mushroom moss and rabbit warren?
Came one day the wrinkled woman, walked the cold stone path,
Past the statues of summer and sky tall trees, by the frozen shade,
Once close up, smiling, off came the shroud of his graven furies.
And all his woken eyes gentle, and the wind strung clear and crisp
They lived happily ever in the wood by the hills and river mouth.
Copyright © 08/27/2016 lance sheridan®