Celtic warriors once stood in a sacred wood

Tall young Gaels from beyond the wall

Aspiring young blades in their hemlock glades

My brother and I once stood amongst the statured

Architecture of stately southern pines

Pavilioned beneath gnarled cones and conifer needles

Crushed by the crisp brilliance of a cobalt blue sky

Burnt bark, raw sienna, palmetto and ochre

Pines that entertained the eye with resinous faces

Long scared with lacey serrations and tin cup graces

But what of smell? Pine tar and turpentine do tell

Magnolia, holly and honeysuckle swell

What of spirit? Forest nymphs? And woodland fairies?

Green men garlanded in irises and berries

Oak men with acorn earrings staring

In this, a mythical Ogre steading

Supplanted by a serene quietness

Blanketed with an icy hoar frost.

It was ever us, my brother and I in each other’s skin

It was ever our souls we shared until his end

Gone from me when he sailed for Avalon

Tis my hope I will find him there long

The sacred grove,

In which my brother and I stood

A warm amaranthine memory

Was forever lost to us

To gild the future

It was cut and timbered

White pines planted in its place

To provide printer paper

Instead of bluebirds

You now hear autos now pass

Was it Holy?

In some sense

Was it religious?

Certainly Not!

Was it spiritual?

Yes! In my mind

Mother Nature at her best

The Blue Bird

Is but my brother’s spirit

Sublimely at rest