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?
Was it spiritual?
Yes! In my mind
Mother Nature at her best
The Blue Bird
Is but my brother’s spirit
Sublimely at rest