My arrival is slow to wonder
initial disbelief
fading into silver-lined water
the mirror imprint
of Nith’s name a god in glass
becoming grey cloud
in the ether says
BELIEVE BELIEVE.
In the netherworld gloaming birds
shriek BELIEVE BELIEVE:
barnacle geese beat
black and white hearts against Crifell.
As the dark moon starts her slow pull
downward to Invernith
my fingers brush water
and touch a silver hand.
The huntsman has ridden all night, following the brilliance of the spirit roads- the shining tracks that criss-cross the island of Britain. Instead of returning home he remains here for dawn, listening to the idiosyncrasies of each bird’s song, watching dew form on blades of grass, on petals of hawthorn blossoms and may flowers.
He is and is not the mist, riding through damp meadows over hills, mountains and moors on a pale horse accompanied by a hound of the same complexion. He is and is not each sun-lit cloud he travels with, the touch and whisper of the wind.
He cannot stay here long, for this world we see as the land of the living is not his. He must return home to Annwn, the Otherworld, to prepare for a battle that cannot be won. To fight for a maiden he shouldn’t have loved, shouldn’t still love… in bluebells and forget-me-nots, emerging greens and white and yellow flowers he sees her colours.
For a moment he is possessed by memories of their passion, and the crimes it drove him to. A glimpse of his blacked face in a reed strewn pool shows no amount of war paint can mask his guilt, which he must live with for as long as there are people to sing his songs.
He searches for a sign. What is Judgement Day? When is it? Although he knows the language of the trees and plants, the tracks of every wild creature and the flight of birds, these questions are beyond his power to divine. When the worlds end, will Creiddylad and I be together again?
I.
As the longest night looses
darkest claws I walk amongst shadows
at dawn where moonlight floods
through the arms of trees
and a solitary lamppost lights the vale.
II.
River-trees stand stark and tall,
consistent in her mind’s
unravelling of currents and tides,
cormorants and gulls,
a ragged heron.
III.
The host’s roar to a lullaby
quells as moon leads dawn
over chiming hills to be swallowed
by cloud as the hunt returns
to graveyard and mound.
IV.
My lord of the fay
makes his presence known.
He speaks to the mist within my bones
like the lych gate unfastening,
awenydd– my magic word.
V.
The spirit paths are mine
to walk for an evanescent pulse
of dawn. Time stands still
from vale to hill and the stream
sings: awenydd, awenydd.
I. Dark Moon
On a dark moon
the lady in the ivy
winds down the dark hill
and the falling graves.
All memory
is sliding into darkness,
the river’s tides
her open mouth.
She is waiting
for the return
of her tribe
on their oaken boats.
The moon is dark
over the river-
an eye, a maelstrom
between the worlds.
The fleet are ready,
the church is empty,
graves as hollow
as the old green hill.
She will be waiting
in the ivy
for the return
of her tribe
on their oaken boats.
II. New Moon
All is darkness
but the splash of the tide,
the wing of an owl.
Lady Ivy
recounts her losses
on the hill
and the bank
where the hangman
wore his cowl.
They are waiting
in the maelstrom eye
of the new moon-
the river’s entryway
to living day
and deep Annwn.
They are waiting,
her hidden tribe
on their oaken boats
in a slit of light,
an opening moonbeam
to row through
the night
to the old green hill.
III. Moon First Quarter
There is wisdom
in the eyes of an owl-
a demand,
a categorical imperative.
Behind cumulonimbus clouds
secretly moon’s orb
is swelling.
They row.
History is written
in their woad-
gods and goddesses,
an oak king,
the lakes and water courses
of their oaken fleet,
the moon’s eye
in the shining river
and all the laws of the deep.
IV. Full Moon
The moon is full
behind the clouds.
She casts no light
on the empty boats,
the processional route
around the old green hill,
the moving river of woad.
Lantern bearers
pass the old iron rails,
the gloomy gathering of graves
to assemble on the mound,
igniting the beacon fire.
By the wing of an owl
the clouds are moved.
The moon looks down,
victorious.
They salute her orb
in the shining river,
the gods of the hill
and the deep.
On this night
of opened graves
anything is possible
in the light of the beacon fire
before the lambent eye of the moon.
V. Moon Last Quarter
Night has fallen
from the moon’s closing eye.
The owl has flown
to the hunt.
The fire gone cold
with the lanterns’ glow
is eclipsed by street lamps
and brake lights.
The by-pass roars
by the old green hill.
The river is concreted
back in her new course.
Lady Ivy
winds down
the hill and the graves.
She waits
for the tribe to row
to the river-moon
on their oaken boats,
to her maelstrom-eye
between the worlds.
Clouds arrive, seasonal and grey,
smothering the town’s jagged edges.
Wrapped in an amniotic haze
I wander streets of dream forgetting
old boundaries between sky and pavement
in the driving rain. Wind spirits
and fierce hounds howl the day down.
I feel the out-breath of a distant king.
The wisdom of Nodens is lost to me.
I wander streets of dream forgetting
all boundaries in the driving rain.
*Nodens is an ancient British god associated with sleep, healing and hunting. In a relief found at his temple in Lydney he is depicted with hounds and putti (wind spirits).
From Peneverdant 