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.
My disregard for the cynic
was so deep, that I chose to
live life in a dream.
If I want flowers and soft nights,
I'll find them.
If I want hills and herds
of Sheep, the echo of wind
round my body, I'll go live it.
There are aspects of life
that are hell. And the hell we carry
round inside.
If I want hell, I'll make my own.
And I'll fade with it, into
soft petals of the Hawthorn.
On the edge of summer
When cherry blossoms bloom
They make sad faces smile
Pink bewitching flower
With power to beguile.
On the edge of summer
Green hedgerows growing spry
Woodbine’s singular spell
Sparks hawthorn harmony
''tis place where fairies dwell.
On the edge of summer
White brimstone butterfly
Dog rose grows fancy-free
Forget-me-knots flutter
An early bee I see.
On the edge of summer
Hedgerow is a busy place
Enthralled by this small sphere
World of innate wonder
Spellbinding every year.
Hawthorn grows abundantly in Ireland and is considered the fairy tree in Celtic mythology.
Pixabay Image by congerdesign
It peeks
from behind the hawthorn
with serenity it glows,
abundantly bright
a radiant red staring
directly off to the sun
pristine it's pull
calling out
a romantic prose
winds dance within
this her rose
stirring and stunning
insurmountable
seduction at hand
daylight bows to her
shadows tantalize
slowly moving
in and out
of sight
long before
the beds are full
her delicate bud
excitingly blooms
Somewhere Down Over South Hawthorn's Way
That’s where we would always meet at the dark
End of the street in the moon's shadow
Teenagers sneakin' some kissin', some huggin'
And some lovin' until the break of day and just
A little bit more again until sunset tomorrow!
As another summer night finds us on fire
Entertaining the feeling of our souls new found
Desire now come hail or high water and the
Passion explodes like thunder!
Young and kindred spirits fresh out of puberty
Giving into our ecstasy 'til the break of day and
Then just a little more again until sunset tomorrow!
Oh Somewhere Down Over South Hawthorn's Way
That’s where we would always meet at the dark
End of the street in the moon's shadow
Teenagers sneakin' some kissin', some huggin'
And some lovin' until the break of day and just
A little bit more again until sunset tomorrow
Somewhere, Somewhere Down Over South Hawthorn's Way!
THE HAWTHORN BRIDAL DRESS
Gone the winter of empty arms ,
Her fresh face is radiant with charms.
In the church garden fair,
One glorious May day near the ides -
Blossom on gown, hair,
Bosom and bouquet - the bride’s
Glowing in the warm embrace
Of her golden groom. She flowers
With bloom on her cheeks and face;
Then, in light petalled showers,
Blossom -confetti litters and turns
To white the path through her roots unseen.
Then the hawthorn tree returns
Again to her everyday working green .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
NOTE
The hawthorn tree in bloom in May is a beautiful sight, but lasts only a short time, like
a wedding celebration. Hawthorn trees are known as May trees, and they appear in the
proverb “Cast ne’er a clout till May is out.” Many people think this means you must
keep wearing winter clothers till the end of the month of May, but it really means until
the May tree’s blossom-flowers are out.
(Here endeth the lesson.)
to see hawthorn on the Summer hedges
bluebirds on the ledges of the low lying sill
near the old cotton mill
bird song fills the air, chirping cheeping, caterpillars creeping.,
through the leaves of green
glistening in the summer sun.
A
sparrow
hawk alights-
the chattering
stops.
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