The Civil Sun

[Irish Bard]

One for St Patrick's Day
But what if such a figure was a villain? What if something valuable was lost when the heathens were made civilised?

The Civil Sun
Black bites minds, shadows smear the land.
Winter's fingers pinch the hours.
Dark and cold tugs tools from hands.
Night keeps eyes from fruit and flowers.

Bean-sídhe peek from fog shrouded saplings.
Whipping winds tickling trees? Ghastly wails?
A standing stone ripples, moon’s glimmering,
Celtic lord, moonbeam blade and shining mail.

Cold sweats, hot fear, story weavers rave.
Sapling and stone leap and lunge,
Clawing twigs strike twinkling blade.
Fire pit figures flee their crimson cage.

Routines ripped and broken bindings
Night veils the eye but welcomes visions
Ghosts and glories scratching, seducing
But day breaks, bursts, pages in flames.

Spring's green shoots, binding ropes
Hold faerie doors and hill holes closed.
The sun holds the sky, a solemn stop
To hearthside heroes, horror’s hoards.

Spiralling serpents, ancient, wise
Flee clock, gear, and coin.
Mystics craft, warrior’s poise
Melt under the civil sun.

 

[annandrola]

Thanks for this.