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per amica silentia lunae

or, across the ferny brae with the evil voodoo celt

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a celtic-themed poem (because it's Imbolc)
Bran's Leavetaking

I turn my back on them as they read the marks
I scored, wooden words telling my farings
Thus far. The tiller turns at my hand, and
We are westward bound once more.
Music fills my mind, the air that haunted
My steps and sleep, heralded the silver branch,
Passport to the gull's road and its wonders.
Even had I not seen my crewman fall to ash
At the touch of years embedded in Erin's shore
I would have done the same; even had the
Yokels known my name save from tales,
There is nothing left on these shores for me.
Ossian's fall from legend and the arms of Niamh
Into dotage, hectored by Patrick to his grave-
This I reject, along with mortal lands. My crew
In solemn agreement sets the sail, each man
Casting one measured glance back on land
No longer home. Wind heels the curragh
And we are off. Shall again we hear the voice
Of MacLir, mocking us from his ocean road?
Will we sight again the Isle of false joys, or
Find other glories only hinted in the sagas?
And when we scent the apple-blossom wind
From Emain, see the many-colored hills,
Hear the harping and the laughter drifting;
And that flame of beauty, there on the shore
With her handmaids- when the thread flies
From her hand, lofting above the gunwales,
Will I take hold and be drawn in, or sail on?
To you who read, this is my only answer:
Here my tale is ended. You will never know.
- 1/27/2006

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This totally rocks my socks. Want more.

This totally rocks my socks.

Thank you!

Want more



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