Aine Gwaed Infanc
The crickets are playing a familiar tune tonight,
One I haven’t heard in many a year.
‘Tis not from their failure to play,
Only from my failure to hear.
‘Tis a melancholy song,
Rather sad, yet rather sweet,
Fills up my soul,
Makes me feel empty yet complete.
It reminds me of times long gone,
Times when my heart was broken,
Times of absolute bliss,
Times kept hallowed by words unspoken.
God has painted the sky to match their symphony:
Flames of scarlet, streaks of gold
Emblazoning the heavens
Like the standard colours of an army bold.
But the flanks of twilight overtakes them,
Dampening out the orange blaze
With a misty stillness
That covers the pond on which I gaze.
Moonlight softly caresses my skin as
Diana, triumphant, begins to rise,
Peeping over blackened pines,
Shedding holy light on my weary eyes.
In the great black void, the stars shine bright
Like the lonely fires of lost souls
Separated by a gulf of darkness
Left alone to tend their coals.
Far too long I’ve been blind to the beauty,
Failing to stop and smell the roses,
Forgetting the blissful return to Eden
That each eveningfall discloses.
Fall, 2016 Issue