A Triad of Englynion
The eldest of unknowns, on hill or heath,
The hoary standing stones--
Secret, silent tombs or thrones--
Huddle where the tempest moans.
In birch-bright woods we find fairy circles,
Rings of toadstools designed,
It seems, by some feral mind,
Unfathomed by humankind...
Through velvet blue, star-strewn skies and throbbing
At the full rides the Moon,
With whom the night-winds commune,
Intoning their chthonic rune.
J P Marmaro