I have a curious tale to tell; a tale, perplexing... still; to me.
was it a truth? Was it a dream? Some sleepy summer fantasy?
Across the hills... as Wordsworth wrote; I wandered, lonely as a cloud;
the only sounds, the whispering breeze, and bumblebees a'buzzing loud.
And, in the clear, hot, Mayday Sun soft beaming from a cloudless blue,
I sat beside an ancient wall, and gazed across the vale below.
The Harebells kept a silent, swaying vigil; I began to doze;
what happened then? Was it a dream?
Or, was it really true... Who knows?
For, suddenly, upon the wall; a female Kestrel landed light,
and gazed at me with eyes as black as sin... so soft, and shining bright.
And this most wild, and beautiful of all God's creatures; carefully
studied me, a little while; then quietly turned...
and spoke to me.
"We know of you" she softly said, "This minstrel soul you would conceal.
You weave and rhyme of truths men have since cast aside... no longer feel;
You craft the tales of love, unsullied by the shadows of base lust;
and, thus...
your words will prosper long beyond when all else, turns to dust."
"You rest upon a sacred mound, where once, the Fires of Beltane shone;
and Lammas torches, here, were lit, to welcome back the Harvest Sun.
T'is not by chance, I find you here. Earth Mother now, has summoned you
back to this place where you and I were once, together... long ago.
For, it is she who gifted you with words to stroke the Female heart,
as you stroked mine upon the Eve of Beltane, and I... for my part
was not ever thus; this slender, hovering form you sometimes see;
for, I was once your love; and once again, in time...
so shall it be."
Why, then; do you think it, by chance... this precious gift by which you spin
and weave the words, is out of nothingness? Or, does it now begin
to blossom in your thoughts? The ancient ways have slumbered in your heart,
until at length, their time came round again... yet one more page, to start.
Think upon the times you watched a Kestrel wheeling in the blue,
clear skies of summer;
just recall how such a sight enchanted you
when you were, but a man-child; and yet, even then... you were aware
that there was something others could not see;
there was some secret, there."
"And, as you slowly came of age... you were weighed, and measured, too...
in the balance; and were not found wanting... so, the gift to you
of golden words, Earth Mother made; no imposition could be brought;
for you possessed a natural empathy... and more... a gentle heart.
Before you put the question... I shall tell you of this circumstance.
I was once handmaiden to Earth Mother, at the Beltane Dance;
but, fell in love... a Minstrel boy; a sacrilegious blasphemy;
Condemned; transformed, into a Kestrel
flight-bound for eternity."
"And I have roamed the depthless heavens... I have searched through countless years,
alone; save, for a breaking heart... for, Kestrels cannot weep sad tears.
But now, it seems, indeed... Earth Mother has, at last, forgiven me...
that I should find you here, where, long ago, our love flowered, fleetingly."
The Kestrel lifted off the wall, to glide and rest upon my arm;
I gently reached out... touched her head; her black eyes showed she feared no harm.
She said, "Yes... I shall wait for you above the clouds... beyond the sky;
and when your span is spent, then, we shall be together... you and I."
"To dance once more about the Beltane Fires without a fear, 'nor care;
to be... as once, we should have been... the Moonflowers braided in my hair.
Like the seasons come and go, the circle turns and turns again
and, it shall come to pass that we shall share the warm glow of Beltane."
Suddenly... a laboured buzzing tugged me to reality;
a pollen-laden, fat, and ponderous bumblebee flew over me.
And, of the Kestrel... not a sign; as if she had been never there;
it really must have been a dream...
too much warm sun... too much fresh air!
And so, I climbed back down the hill... all lost in thought, and wondering.
My poems do seem favoured by the Ladies... there's a curious thing.
And in the sighing breeze, the Harebells shivered... fragile, blue, and pale.
A name, it seemed... came whispering like a memory, across the vale...
Belith.
Unknown... yet half-remembered; very strange... but very true;
and then; upon the breeze... the faintest echo of a Kestrel's mew;
and in the sky, a tiny cloud... for all the world, it seemed to me...
shaped, just like a hovering Kestrel,
in the Blue infinity.
I find myself just gazing up into that endless, clear, deep blue,
and, hear myself soft, whisper... as the tiny cloud melts from my view,
on my lips... the ancient Celtic name I feel, but do not know...
Belith...
yes; on some Eve of Beltane, we shall share the firelight glow.
And, that... then, is this curious tale. I cannot say that it is true.
I can, but tell it as it is... perhaps, a dream... I just don't know.
On the hill the Harebells shiver in the breeze from off the vale;
silent witnesses, who watched it all...
but cannot tell the tale.
Above a thousand years have passed, since fires on Beltane Eve shone clear,
to welcome in the Summer, in the circling seasons of the year.
and, what... of Belith?
no more than some faint breeze, all whispering, soft
amongst the fragile Harebells?... Or, the echo of a thing long lost?
The Old Ways are still all about us; the circle turns, and turns again.
The ancient, Pagan cycles... long suppressed; still, silently remain.
Now, strangely... when I see a Kestrel; I know I will surely find
that pretty, Celtic name... Belith;
soft whispering, somewhere, in my mind.
Another example of my Narrative Poetry. I Hope you enjoy it.