I am a leaf, shed, homeless,
drifting in through a hole in the carpentry --
a skeleton among skeleton relatives,
dusting the shuffle-worn surface
of our mother's planked-out chest.

We speak the true tongue
a language formed
in the deepest trenches
of the earth's oceans
those places where life was formed
where the elemental heat
of the planet
expresses itself
in steam, confusion
and eruption

We sing in the true tongue
music that is blind
yet sees all
its rhyme set to rhythm
a motion of flesh-hung bones

We stand against every fate
yet our song will endure
it will be the last song

And we paint
with a palette stolen
from the sky
on the day of the most perfect dawn

We are God's thieves
stealing a line here and there
dipping a sad bucket
into a river of stars
holding it proudly aloft
the heart shaped into a song
perhaps a poem
nothing more

Yet more than nothing.
And more than enough.

Imagine -

this blackness as if it is something
tangible

that you can hide in your
hand

an apple core you can throw
away

when the flesh has been eaten
away

I fall into a medicated sleep
each night

close my eyes to the world
yet still

it moves around me,
pulses

like the streets of a big city
drowned in neon light

I want to touch this hook that has
gutted me

until only my body remains
the outer shell

of something living, the movement
of a clenched fist

plunged into a ribcage that
shatters and pierces the heart

they call it a dog and I know it
is animal

in nature, ruthless,
with an insatiable hunger

I am the root of the dying
flower

resistant but buried under-
ground

I can only see the sun in the
moon

the sea in a handful of salt
rubbed deep into the

wound

Druid is Derwydd
in our tongue
the Welsh of my fathers

Our land is called Cymru
and we have thrived here
since ancient times

We live by our cattle
first
our hearts and families
second
and our crops a poor third

We are taught that
a mist descended on our land
in the before times
and cleansed the earth of life

And that a new people came
our people
and brought with them
cattle
all of the trades
and a gift for song

We were called Celts
but now we are proudly
Welsh
the dragon is our badge
and red war our way of life

The Derwydd
are our guides
they follow the stars
know the mystic tides
teach our young
and ease our old
into the afterworld

Never cross a Druid
they say
or feel your tongue
curl into burnt leather
in your mouth

Please a Druid
and luck will
lay by your side

I am called Caedmon
wise warrior
son of Lhur
born in the shade
of a great oak

I was taught all of the high arts
poetry
music
and war

If ever you travel
through our fortress-locked land
you will be welcome
at my hearth

Come
bring your sweet pipes
and play
bare your sword arm
and raid with us

When we return
cattle rich
then the feast will begin
then the bards will sing
and poetry will open your mind
to the harmonies of heaven.

An ash tree stands
at the place of creation
it is called Yggdrasil

A high tree
well-proportioned
the source of the dew
mother of winds

Green it is
standing over
the well of fate

Its roots draw
from the waters
that freshen that well

In old English there is a word
Treowth
it means both
tree
and truth

This tree is truth
its latticework of leaves
and branches
more intricate
than the Milky Way

It is a lung inverted
inhaling heaven's mists
exhaling the wind

It is our guardian tree
planted by a mighty race
that came before

A sentinel of hope
a goad to good works
and the last remaining sign
of a dawning
when the human mind
was first formed.

Rest now in its shade.
The final journey will soon begin.