.
BRYN
Bryn does not care
Whether it is ice or storm.
It does not care which angry voice
Strides the world to call for war.
It rises as it always has
Making a horizon towards heaven,
Feeling the deep, slow pulse of the seasons
That is the heartbeat of the earth.
Feeling the downward blessings of rain
That trickles its poetry through
Heather root and bracken arch.
Bryn, that is no name at all.
Singing itself to itself.
The throne, the Elders, the Hosts,
The shining voice, itself to itself.
Holding its counsel, abiding in silence,
Resting alone. An island above the mists,
Above the green glow, moving the stars
And giving each its shelter
In its own dark womb.
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simonhlilly 