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The hollow hills of the Old Folk,

How they whisper the cries of chill wind,

The craggy place of stones and bones,

All shadows and spiders,

Grey with mist where the only lichen grow,

No twig nor vine,

Nor leaf and naught blade of grass,

Cold bones ground upon the stones,

Secret ways lit with torches of the dead,

The place where the old souls of Celts grieve,

Rusted with the ancient blood,

Prey to the sins of Rome, 

The ghosts of Lugh's children weep,

Tears of frost and shards of ice,

As the North Star pivots the World,

Seeing what their progeny have become,

Constellations bear baleful witness,

For we are drunk on the altar wine of Rome,

It is blood and dust,

It is a dark harvest,

Upon which October's barrows feed,

So spider crawl,

Spider bite,

With your web of silken night,

Winter comes to your cocoon,

A thousand years before your June,

Be silent,

And close your black eyes.



Name : Dan A. Stafford 
Location :- California , USA
Born in a place of Winter, living in a place of Summer,  Dan reads, he teaches, and he writes poetry, usually just before sleep.


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