Celtic dream.

We rode on, outdated,
through the fine, splendid, sublime,
exquisite madness of the world.
Twigs on branches, leaves on twigs,
the vines curling down, creeping over,
with the flow of the wild,
ancient melodies, on drums, on pipes.
Drunken horses, drunken
woolen robes. Scarves.
The bald woman sang to us. Sun
between green canopies. The swelling
hum of old, old pipes and drums.
From the field of laughter, from spiced
wildflowers, the forests of dark tears,
the full taste of creation's roasting ecstacy
smothered our lips like strange,
bleeding fruits....
We ate her songs. The hair
thatfell in the horsetail tracks left -
distant days, smoke over thatch,
bardcalls, Gaelic estuaries, haze -
soft, brown-golden straw
for the island curlews to peck. Runes,
scars of melodious wisdom, subliminal men.
And the whole, encircling,
dread mystery of her rocking throat,
mountains of the hunter's horn.
Her lap of lakes. The dance.

"Keltic Dream," David Sparenberg.