We stomp up the Fairy Mound

in the faint moon shadows

for it is the Hathor time, three o’clock

the time to get out of bed, stung awake

outlandish, with the blood singing wild

and the owls sounding.

 

The oak boughs are star pricked

diamante studded

pinned to the dome rolling overhead

straddled by the galactic hub

and shot by  iridescent meteoritic flares

playing through the resonance fields.

 

A mist wafts over the silvery speckled brook

  soft fingers along the hazel banks

and trapses its gauzy skirts

 through the gorse thickets

blobbed along the higgeldy slopes below.

 

Delicious shivers run down the spine

and into the ancient rocks;

the small folk are already about

perched on each moon-dewed blade of grass

and in the lattice of  scribbly branches  overhead.

 

The night holds its breath

 that in-between, before-the-dawn stillness

where  edges  dissipate

- the this with That.

 

Oct 2007