Blackbirds roil
through dual-world white.
Henge-ghosts age
the dawn, drink the fog
where hag-neck cliffs
thwart hills, bald
above weeping-blue. Stippled
Alba’s there, at the lip of the world.
On shaggy nags,
five shaggy lads
hang barley breath on mist,
a ginger coppice in the stead of trees,
staunching dread-Queen dread
with platted posies,
vivid, untainted,
in still-boyish hands.
All the while the Morrigan below
shreds petals,
cups the foam,
entreats
the clumsiness of feet.
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