Wicked Weedery

wierd one

wicked weedery

 

away and away the pitch bird catches dry seed;

                                 flown blind over Tir na n-Og.

                hear the Bean Chaointe wail from the banshee chair.

                                breath into air; flesh into clay.

mass and masses waxed to shimmer-stones.

 

charred bones and hair; hard sticks and leaves.

                                 begotten, bereaved, deceived and departed.

                garden of the damned and doubtful;

                                 holy fountain dried to crimson crust;

rust of all creation.

 

                                  deprived of glory and glimmer;

spanning Papacy and piracy.

                                     all positions in between keening la-la lamentations.

                         smear the plaid and hush the pipes,

cast your tears into the sea.

 

don’t mourn this lowly cobber long;

  curt swaying song, then waltz on.

                             gone and gone to the broken fate;

               regretfully, no regrets to share.

as fair as any other tare in this wicked weedery.

 

 

Reviews

[Kerry O'Connor]

The first couple of stanzas appear like a magic spell or incantation to an ancient religion: the ancient feel of sacrifice at the holy fountain - the rust of creation - all to the sound of bagpipes on the wind. A superlative experience of the primal link between man and his gods.

[mysticgmekeepr]

I love alliteration. Nice piece and thank you for visiting my page and your kind comment

[Crowley]

Weird indeed, but flows on a dark wind through every nook and cranny of dark and at first glance abandoned alleyway in London. A bit of a Jack the ripper feel to it, at least to me. I can read this one by the light of the moon and get some more mileage out of it for sure. Nice job.