2
Weavers of the Sidhe
Two came at twilight
From the rath,
Cold with curiosity,
Small as children
But with strange eyes
And smiles too old,
Far too old.
To see who it was
Carried the silence
By the shore
That was not the grey heron’s;
To judge the cry of one
Neither curlew nor oystercatcher;
To weigh the harsh throat
Not of the hooded crow
Nor of the raven.
To find the mote
In sunlit attic,
It’s dance to forgotten harp
Dusted earth, dreamt melody –
Dream nerves tied to sing of rock,
To follow the dancing road.
When they speak
Small blue flames flicker
Upon their tongues.
Their eyes –
Corridors of starlight
From distant galaxies.
Their thin fingers
Cat’s cradling
the centuries.
They are the same
Our ancestors knew:
Changeless,
Dissolving in midday light,
Returning at twilight
With shadows dancing.
They belong to place,
But not to time.
They are the rolling,
Rising, blue distance-
Yearned for,
Unattainable.
3
The Secret Commonwealth
Cast out,
Cast down
From Heaven’s brilliance.
Not falling for the passion of rage,
Nor swayed by the unforgiving violence
Of righteousness,
(The simple, clear lie
of polarities, justice, truth).
Condemned by the Most High
For failing to take sides.
Falling down,
Down
Into twilight.
Neither here nor there,
Backwards or forwards.
It is why they flock to song,
Delight in the poet,
To what moves by its stillness,
What reverberates with passion,
Profound ephemera,
Guileless illusion,
Flash of gold,
Uncertain Reality.
Shot-silk seasons
Rich with the Opposite.
Reflection on reflection,
Echoed echoes.
Not dead, nor living
They are the rolling, rising blue distance,
The accumulation of dream,
Repository of yearning,
Perfume of nostalgia.
The processions, the slow
Dance:
Terrestrial constellations
Caught sight of peripherally,
Oblique,
Canny,
Ambivalent,
Unnerving.
Bane of priests,
Defiers of logic.
Snake language – fast
And sparkling.
A danger to mortal dreamers
Who might fade
Into the world,
Feather roots merging,
Knowing and edges blurred
Into the song of presence.
Perhaps returning,
(if at all)
With a fragment of lament,
An air,
A pavan,
A secret wrenched from time,
Lost within time again,
A wonder,
A treasure,
A mystery unholy,
Disengaging from certainty.
simonhlilly 
“dream nerves tied to sing of rock” – wondrous. And the essence of a poetry of place seems to be discovering what “belongs to place / but not to time” – full fluid working Simon, thank you. Very moving in its stillness.
Thank you very much!
“Weavers of the Sidhe”—ancient and fully of mystery–
“Snake language –fast” –have you discovered the snakes in “Ley Lines”?
Yes, these prompted me to the first part.
Snake sense on the wind it seems, Simon.
Snake imagery and dragons too are the weft of the weaving of the world’s mind, that comes down to us as dream, myth and folktale. Celtic cosmology is full of them, as is the earth-working technologies of the prehistoric peoples of Europe. Dragon paths, fairy paths, shaman roads, star roads all feed into the “leyline” map, though are somewhat different (different roads for different destinations). My wife, Sue, has always had a particularly close connection with dragon energies. In the last few years we have seen some others too begin working positively with these energies, and it seems to stir up a good, cleansing and releasing energy, without imposing the slurry of the healy-feely brigade.