Ceann Bró - Maria McKee

And I against the sable of a sky

Bend just as far as the arch of my back will allow

I rise and the beam that gently sweeps the tide

Up and down, cannot be found to illuminate me now

And the clotted stems of the Herb Robert

Shot through the crags

They burst and splatter forth like rubies veins

And the Red Valerian in blush

And the White Thorn flushing into bloom

And just ahead of May

And if you wanted to partake

In a teasing threat of psychic violence

And the blood sport of an evening

Never touching

Only near, and not near but hovering

Outlined against the fervid flush of dawn

Is The Head rising slow and poised with great intent

And I, who so fearlessly have tread upon

That thread on the horizon where dream and logic bind

And space and time have been rent

And a lash of wind whipping, wet, stroking

And a gash begins splitting flesh open now

Across my cheek

And a gasp comes forth with a heaving

As the salt at the source of the bleeding

Brings a great relief

And if you wanted to partake

In a teasing threat of psychic violence

And the Blood Sport of an evening

Never touching

Only near, and not near

And we’re levitating now

In the spray above the blue and black

Floating down onto the bluffs of grey

Without that part of you that’s never coming back

You take your leave and never will you know

About the Moldavite buried in the stone

Beneath the trembling fern

And it begins as I am giving up my form

As once again will lie everything dormant

Until your return

And I against the sable of a sky

Bend as far as the arch of my back will allow

And now beside The Altar Dolmen

I startle no one

I sleep

And keeping low will hold my ground