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Oak Warrior of Truth and Blade
Strong against the North Wind
of Battle, holding the line
A wren calls your ancient name
the echo in your acorns
the heft of centuries
in your limbs
Brigid's blessings
under your leaves
Mighty are the doorways
made of you
Lovely in her luster
wrapped in a soft brown shawl of wisdom
poems dance in her branches
plaited into her leaves
The Crane flies above her
calling for her second sight
Will it be a cold winter
Mother knows of course
Eat her mast to know for yourself
Mother likes the old ways
when proper respect was paid
when the land and sea and sky
held the people close
She misses the wors
the whispered blessings
yet the omens hint
perhaps the people awaken
Mother will be ready
In my red cap of berries
dark glas-grey-green my skin
starlings chatter at me
but I don't mind them
Misunderstood am I
Some think me ill fortune
Some find me festive
the old ones planted my children
near their doorways
adorned their midwinter halls
Leave me to my business
let the birds gossip
let the trees murmur
I care not for crowns or laurels
I am plain in my blood-red cap
Many a graveyard I guard
Keeping vigil, keeping watch
scores of swans have I seen
sibling of the silver Birch
once I was called
Favored, if notfavorable
for harm flows within me
Host for the Good Folk
red-speckled and wary
woe to the people unwise
to my ways, to my presence
Wild since yore
In Glens and Glades
Bitter at first bite
Temptation
Is not my way
Is not a sin
My fruit takes work
Patiently passionate
Plucked after first frost
Wild as the Good Folk
Favored in their feasts
Bounty of old Gods
No luscious liquid
No perfect flesh
My bite is bracing
Taste the Wild
Find the old Songs
In my pips
Within dark bark
Below roots woven
Beats Madame’s pulse
Fire of spirit
Magic of mind
Dryad to no one
What do you ask
of the wizened One
who waits in the dark
Her wick burns hot
alive, pulsing red
in Her shadow form
Please Her
you must
if boons you seek
Please Her not
and Her grin glows
with prickled delight
Before the Tuatha I was here
Before stone pillars
Before burial mounds
The people came
Cutting me,
Shaping me
their bows and coffins
I endure
moths flitting
in my hair
holy wells my close companions
If you are gifted
a sturdy branch
a slender twig
let it lead your vision
Your dreams shall come
to pass
Come to me not
with your whining
I have no patience
for whims and worries
Limbs taken from me
without my leave
Woe to thee
Never a cradle,
Always a switch
or so say
the wise women
Starlings squabble
cursing the dusk grey
protection, perhaps,
will be my gift to thee,
if you bring me cream
and soothe my body
with soft hands
I still hear the strings
music plucked, nimble fingers
the harper paid in mead
I still hear the bees buzz
combing the strands of my branches
with their soft whisper wings
I still see the baskets
the coffins woven
a tender frame for the dead
I still see the hawks
fine colored and deadly
watching mice scurry under my feet
I still know their voices
the ones who came before
with messages for their progeny
Prickle prickle
weave your thread
trap each stitch
don't lose your head
none but goats
will dare my seed
orange and red
my autumn leaf
Moths do nestle
in my bower
a druid's trap
against Aengus Og
Make your needles
from my flesh
Prickle prickle
with each stitch
In the days of Bronze
I was here
ruddy red brown
and glossy sheen
watching over
Galway Bay
Jackdaws nattering
near my berries
a not so common
Commoner, says the Brehons
for many never tasted
my blushed fruit
Still and all
I warmed the people
and watched the Bay
never speaking what
Diarmid and Graine knew
For you see
the secret way
to youth everlasting
or so they say
for those lucky
who learned my ways
In St John's Wood
seek me out
wild robins in my hair
dressed in
purple-red jewels
a prize for seeking
The bards knew me
coaxing life from harps
built of me,
and captured summer sun
in the reverberations
Not so grand as some
but have you tasted
anything as sweet
as luscious
as my bounty
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