Tuatha de Danaan
|Posted on August 30, 2015 at 4:20 AM|
Passing through the blue mountain,
into the darkening wood,
lush, green like a memory,
as the moon drops down,
so big in the indigo sky,
until deeper, down,
back with the trees,
yet, bursting with song,
You cannot see,
they are everywhere.
Tree frogs, sprung from the creek bed,
warm, in their shelters, is it them you can smell?
Or the moss, or fern, or downy bosom of some great sleepy bird,
singing a nocturne?
No, joining the song.
The song is traditional, rare, and strange.
Familiar, so haunting, a prayer of great joy,
caught in wonder at the same old song,
the soul of the trees,
mystical devas conducting their eternal August song.