Category Archives: Don and Wen

Isle of Emain…

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A far distant isle

lies in leagues fifty-thrice

over the ocean to the west

larger than Erin, twice.

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Many faceted Emain

encircled by sea

rising from tide into sky

an ever wondrous beauty.

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On the fair isle of Emain

a hoary tree grows

its silver-laced branches

blossom like no-one yet knows.

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Multi-hued birds

sing within the tree tops

on a white-silver plain

do dragon-stones drop.

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Unheard is wailing

as sweet-music strikes ear

it issues through Emain

banishing all fear.

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A band of nine women

come down from a height

over variegate plains

to the seaside, pure-white.

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 Onward they run

to a stone shining-bright

for about it to dance

raising songs in the night.

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The pure man arrives there

 rowing in on the flood

stirring the ocean

as sun turns to blood.

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At dawn he arises

a delight to sore eyes

his coracle of bronze

illumining blue skies.

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 A splendour of colour

glistens in the land

spreads its glorious range

over sea-washed sand.

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The host he brings with him

for long ages stay

their beauty in freshness

knows not death nor decay.

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In happiness and health now

their laughter peals loud

on Emain in each season

reigns joyousness proud.

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My song to you all then

still in strife and in pain

you must voyage on the ocean

to the fair isle of Emain.

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Craft of the White-Crow…

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Whiter than the swan on a lake

Whiter than the gull of the stream

Whiter than snow on the high-peak.

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Like a wave of the sea from ebb to flood

Slender as the tall-birch, blowing…

Of a shape-sweet as full bodied clover, bobbing…

Of a colour-fair as summer’s bright morn, glowing…

Your presence, the dawning glory of the land.

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Lovely the sun’s smile, rising…

Lovely the moon’s sheen, climbing…

 Lovely the stars gleam, shining…

 More lovely, the blush of your cheek.

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Vegetative Soul? …

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The Ancients it seems

Conceived a three-fold

Analogy which linked

Agriculture, Generation and Re-generation.

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These systems were regulated

By the sun, the earth and the moon

Which moved together in cyclical process…

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It was, perhaps, not such

A bad conception, after all.

A Twice-Stole Spear…

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… “Mananawn’s Mount,” muttered Fin, pensively.

“Yeas!” exclaimed Daatho, “from Sidhe Finnaha, where Leer himself resides, he descends like a fire-storm. That radiant place on the very crest of the height is crowned with flames that leap rubied-red, through the day-light hours, but as night falls it sparks and spits like star-fire, as a guard against the foolish and unwary.”

“Do not the High Ones have their share of our spoil?” asked Fin, “what need has one of theirs to torment us so?”

“If the stone of the hills know it they utter it not,” said Daatho, “yet men will ever spin their yarns to draw out the unknown.”

“What stories have you heard told on this matter?” asked Fin.

“The old men say that it is all on account of a spear. They tell that Cuill, who was once the head of the Fianna, stole the spear from the Fairy Rath of Alain, son of Mithna.”

“And where is that spear now?” shouted Fin.

“Where is last year’s winter?” smiled Daatho.

“Is it with Goll, who is now head of the Fianna?”

“It is not with Goll, no,” said Daatho, “though Goll, it is true, sacked the Dun of Cuill, he did not get the spear, and nor did any man now known.”

“And what of the Fianna?” asked Fin, “has the strength of every champion’s arm been sapped by these fire-storms?”

“You can try the strength of your own arm,” laughed Daatho, “the king has offered their heart-wish, as reward, to any man who can stay the burning of Tara.” …

to be continued

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High-Way to Tara…

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Fin Mac Cuill stood on an out-crop of rock and surveyed the Fortress of Tara…

Brightly coloured banners ran from the breeze over her ornately carved roof-poles…

Long had Fin yearned for this moment, Tara before him and his feet upon the High-Way that led to her…

There was no need now to hasten his steps.

Fin allowed his thoughts to wander…

His mind penetrated the long-roofed halls of Conn, beloved king of his father…

The long-roofed halls where Goll now lorded it…

Goll, Lord of the Fianna…

Goll, slayer of Cuill!

“A heartening sight, is it not?” mused a voice close by him.

Fin turned swiftly in alarm, regretting the loosening of the fetters which normally bound his mind.

The stranger smiled, “Feast your eyes while ye may, stranger, for tomorrow the sun will rise on the charred ruins of that fortress.”

“What man utters such a dire prophecy?” demanded Fin.

“Daatho, utters this prophecy, a man with lands and thralls here. Were you not a stranger you would know that every third Sarwen, Alain, son of Mithna, burns Tara to the ground.

“One man burns Tara to the ground, you say, Daatho?” grinned Fin, disbelieving.

“He is a Crafty One,” said Daatho, “and those that know, of such veiled things, say that he dwells on Smithies Height.” …

to be continued

Spring…

the-silver-well-3*

…They do have something of the ‘other-world’ about them these places.

‘No un-authorised person beyond this point,’ said the sign.

‘But we are more authorised than anyone ever could be,’ said Wen.

It is difficult to disagree but then the village of Cerne Abbas is in itself quite otherworldly too.

I got exactly the same feel from it as when I first went to Glastonbury.

It felt like we had left England and gone abroad, perhaps to France…

‘Albion!’ smiles Wen, ‘the whole of these Blessed Isles used to feel like this…’

The Heart Of Albion

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