Through mists of time and legends lore,
a Celtic mist invades our core.
Haunts our soul, stirs our mind,
looks through eyes forever blind.
To ancient times, lost along the way,
like an orphaned prodigal prodigy.
Mark the thought and slip back in time,
where honor reigned and stood sublime.
The year stirs awake from its icy wonder,
animals rouse from hides buried under.
Life buds swell, grow and start to bloom,
resurrected life, fresh ready to consume.
The livestock loose from shelters shell,
and pass through Beltain's fire like hell.
The bright time season as was once known,
of new born lambs and crops fresh sown.
A time of fertility when wars would rage,
of invasions passed from Druid’s sage.
The May Queen glares on the fires of Bel,
flowers freshly picked, decked the holy well .
The great Elk wanders, crunching under foot,
waving his antlers that from his crown did jut.
Like Cernunnos, god of the underworld dire,
feared by man, yet seduced by its desire.
To tame a land, too harvest its seed,
but sows the grain yet reaps the weed.
The Pooka stares, with its evil eagle eye,
harries the innocent, destroys with a sigh.
To mysterious waters, brine coloured despair,
lost to elder’s cries within Balors dripping lair.
Sidhe flit’s across the mind, a spirit of the dead,
arousing hidden memories lost within your head.
Morgana calls, the Queen of the fortunate isles,
prompting you awake, as you step the Celtic stiles.