In Autumn’s motley hue, the rusted heather and peaty trails
Mark out Time ‘til daylight fails. But silence looms.
The birds are quietly fluttering still, upon the branch
Now bare in slowly creeping chill. She sleeps. She dreams.
The dappled laughter, the speckled sighs that rise in flight
With butterflies as Calliagh’s breath attends the skies
Attest to promise, to days to come when he returns, her lover-Sun.
The silent granites of Gullion hold true her ponderous secrets,
And shape a cauldron of cultured delights draped in fertile gowns
That glitter in ancient celebration of the fading light. She stirs.
The solitary Queen of High Places; The Regent of Dying Things
Disturbed in her slumber as the weeping birds have ceased to sing.
She will haunt the waiting Temple with its stone passage
Frosted sharp and clean, its chamber turgid with fearful hope, obscene.
Her penitents shall tremble, the fairies fled as she awakens
From her rocky bed to bathe her silken skin in pallid moonlit threads,
To clothe in earthy robes of ritual with blood-soaked shaking hands
That will offer screaming sacrifice that shamanic shame does yearly demand.
As Calliagh cries, with longing for union with her weakened mate,
The dimpled gabbro cowers broken, and whispers to the tree, be still;
As Calliagh pines for her handsome beau’s caress,
She aches for coupled embrace, that fleeting day when ecstasy is won;
The Time of the Solstice Dance when the barren Goddess of Winter Earth
Will join, in longing, rebirth, with the dying God of Summer Sun.