From chapel pulpit, wave of his right hand,
Parson announced we were all connected,
His sermon, life on outer Scottish islands,
Distant cousins, we are all blood-relations,
Deep-rooted heritage, time-extending since
First Celtic invaders. Fall nights, in my bed
Half-sleeping, faint smoke open-window
Drifting, I, Willow, dream-lingered with
Sea-wandering ancient ancestors.
Upon Hebridean sea-girt cliffs, they settled,
First few, then dozens, land’s end dwellings
Established – their chance inhabiting, plough-
Turned fertile earth. Had they been chieftain-
Banished or preferred isolation, life beyond
Sun-setting evening skies? Celtic families,
Similarities discerned, my ancestral self
Recognized me, shell adorned hair, father’s
Daughter, knife-wielding woman my age.
“Who are you?” she asked, reaching arm’s
Length into rising night-fire smoke. “Willow,”
I replied, fingertips touching, “Connected
We are,” though neither of us dared venture
Beyond time-forged boundaries, witchery she
Accepted like daily sunrises, windswept rainy
Days. “Ríonach,” she stated. “Sisters we are.”
Knotted string from wrist she removed, cast
Through spark-rising smoke, past time, on my
Blankets landing, Celtic connections made.
This is Willow’s second encounter with Rionach.
Thanks for reading.