the brand that torches the sere
edge of last season's harvest
and sets the corn alight
before it heaps into ash
the ray of white you will be
caressing the womb tomb of
Brugh Na Boinne on the dawn
when winter lays down its
cloak of white and feathered night
Boann's daughter you will be
with eyes of gray-green water
over the white fall of your
face -- the eye that sees the well
of Segais in its rising
and it tumbles, roaring down
tearing down the nine hazels
of the wise, the very fish
that eat them drowned in fury
and loss, river of longing
the caged doe you will be
hooded falcon of the arm
the red drip under talons
a shred of heart in your beak
the jesses snapped and thrown
song-woman, your breath shall spark
a blaze of verse, burning woods
of song -- a cast of your hair
shall make exiles of men
and fools of scholars and kings
unreachable star, yawning
tomb-mouth, black-feathered Nemhain
on the red field of Ulster
a white step that shall leave
not springtime but bare bone
to see you, men will give
one eye -- then pawn the other
to stand again with their face
in your sun, swords fallen
to an earth of rust and rot