The Silver Branch

In the hazel-wood where the blackbird calls Where the dew-drop on the rowan falls I saw your shadow on the standing stone A queen of the Sidhe, on a moss-green throne Your hair is the copper of the autumn fern The lesson my heart was too slow to learn I’d give my hounds and my heavy shield For a single night in the clover field. MA CHROÍ! White Swan of the Western Sea The mist has stolen your breath from me The salt is stinging on my weary face As I hunt the ghost of your cold embrace Bound by the geis, and the iron ring I am the bird that has forgotten how to sing. Your eyes are the fire and the burning coal, While the ravens are circling my hollow soul. I’ve written your name in the margins of gold On the vellum of winter, in the bitter cold. My bed is the bracken, my pillow is clay, In a hollow where twilight has faded away. I’ve traded my kingship for a briar-crown And watched the sun of my kingdom go down. Is this a glamour or a druid’s curse? To love the blessing and the winter worse? The Salmon of Knowledge is silent and deep In the well of the world where the old gods sleep If I could find the path to the Isle of Youth I’d trade my honor for a moment of truth. The silver branch has turned to lead. The iron ring is sinking in the bay. Don't look for me in the woods of the Sidhe. I am the salt in the wound of the sea. The vellum is blank. The story is done. The mist... The mist has won.