The Druidic College

She wakes me at three,
Muse calling.

Who is the horse
With dew-laden mane
And wise crone eyes
Come upon me in shapeless mist?
Is there salt in the air,
An orchard behind?
“I come from out of the hill.
I am the hill.”

She is my far past.
This is the high plain of grass
Shrouded in gray
Where of old, gems gleamed
And maidens went a’gathering.

She is a horse of Faery,
A challenge to the smith,
For her shoes may not be iron.

Light the forge,
Red the Farrier.
A forge of magic!

For Brighid and Tailltiu are one,
And each reflects the other
At the time of the horse fairs.

When she can dance,
Gems may shine like stars again.
Her nose is velvet.
I forgot to remember.
She whispers into dawn.

(c) 2009 Arvanna