Ceann Bró

And I against the sable of a sky Bend just as far as the arch of my back will allow I rise and the beam that gently sweeps the tide Up and down, cannot be found to illuminate me now And the clotted stems of the Herb Robert Shot through the crags They burst and splatter forth like rubies veins And the Red Valerian in blush And the White Thorn flushing into bloom And just ahead of May And if you wanted to partake In a teasing threat of psychic violence And the blood sport of an evening Never touching Only near, and not near but hovering Outlined against the fervid flush of dawn Is The Head rising slow and poised with great intent And I, who so fearlessly have tread upon That thread on the horizon where dream and logic bind And space and time have been rent And a lash of wind whipping, wet, stroking And a gash begins splitting flesh open now Across my cheek And a gasp comes forth with a heaving As the salt at the source of the bleeding Brings a great relief And if you wanted to partake In a teasing threat of psychic violence And the Blood Sport of an evening Never touching Only near, and not near And we're levitating now In the spray above the blue and black Floating down onto the bluffs of grey Without that part of you that's never coming back You take your leave and never will you know About the Moldavite buried in the stone Beneath the trembling fern And it begins as I am giving up my form As once again will lie everything dormant Until your return And I against the sable of a sky Bend as far as the arch of my back will allow And now beside The Altar Dolmen I startle no one I sleep And keeping low will hold my ground