The Hawthorn of Bru na Boinne
Form: Seadna
Mist climbs the fields of Bru na Boinne
where cattle paths grow dim;
a lone hawthorn keeps the rath
where daylight thins to rim.
Old men passing touch their caps
and leave the thorn-tree be;
for roots run deep in hollow earth
and house the hidden Si.
When Atlantic winds go wandering
across the western plain,
a flute-note floats through folding grass
like breath from elder reign.
No hearth-light burns upon the rise,
no shepherd waits the sky—
yet silver steps set dew aflame
as though a court passed by.
The hawthorn leans but will not break
though winter scours the land;
for halls lie deep beneath its roots
no mortal hand has spanned.
Mist gathers round the fairy hill
as travellers wander wide;
for none would wake the Aos Si
who breathe on the other side.
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