“Study of a Female Nude,” Nicholas Roerich, 1985, WikiArt.

Part 4: Time-Reversed Moments (Last)

First parchments written, through my soul
Verses strained, my body fraught with fatigue,
Dream-restless sleep, time-obscured images,
Appearing, then lost in island mist. If all
Round me was prophetical, my existence was
Beyond corporeal. Deep resounding voices,
Chanting, incantations, emanating from tree-
Tops, was realm of Celtic gods or those who
Walked as ghosts? Realization! Perhaps
Nothing, no single word should be written of
Celtic religion, ancient gods, my parchments
Cast into fire, smoke to deific heights rising.

What did I learn from murdering beggar, life
Of bloodstained regret? What words spoken in
Knee-bent prayers? That we be at peace with
Others and ourselves, latter equally important.
Tears streaming, another verse recorded. What
Is happiness? Release from winter hardships?
Least pain, greatest pleasure? Lo! Writing more
I began: safety, health of loved ones, Pleiades
Rising, sickle sharpened, bountiful harvests,
Food upon family table. Look to Ancient Ones
For guidance, seek truth, avoid falsehoods,
Armed strangers, Dea Matrona be with me.

“Glenneth!” Screams for help, concentration
Mind-broken, accident of stonemason, broken
Leg, bone showing, life-blood ground seeping.
My headscarf pressed upon deadly wound, our
Bodies fear-trembling, “Mother!” My prayerful
Pleas to Dea Matrona. Word-thoughts she said
To me: Remember wheel within wheel, Glenneth,
Wooden spokes as time-paths, harken forces
With mighty clap of hands
. Light rising from
My body, palm-stinging clap I made, time
Swirling all round, I spoke language of the
gods: “Time-reversed moments!”

“Apollo’s Chariot,” Odilon Redon, WikiArt.

Sun above backwards rose, golden chariot
Galloping steeds rebounding course, hands
Upward thrust, hand-carved stone in place,
Mason to his tools did turn, stone toppling
Harmless at his feet. Fates-eclipsed, time
Normal course returned, no one round us
Knew, except ghost-wandering, standing
Stone erecting, future folk treading on
Grassy graves – and for me, Glenneth,
Neither twixt nor tween, transparent to all
Who passed my shimmering form, verses
Written and myself lost to Celtic past.

For now, this is the last poem about mystical Glenzy or Glenneth, as she is time-
suspended in Celtic past. Perhaps we will read about her again. Thanks for reading.

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