Part 4: Celtic Myth-Memories
Never had I felt seasick, island fishing boats,
Papa’s able hands, foaming seas, colliding
Wind-waves, Hremsa at steerboard, sailing
Dory crest-skimming tween briny depths and
Air, we pushed for Norse seas, isles beyond
Reach of land. “Fear not child, no harm befalls
Whilst at helm am I. Distant light our heading
Make, fates, destinies.” Dark-merging sky-
Waves, horizon warming light, radiance of
Ancient worlds beckoned, we sail-sought.
Myth-memories we had become, cloud-oaring
Eternal boatmen, weary eyes and backs, hardy
Sea-greetings offered, Celtic ancient ones,
Neither dead nor alive, our guides to celestial
Realms. “What place Is this?” I, Willow asked
Hremsa, horse-drawn chariot, hammered disc
Of gold, reflections of deific sun, by standing
Stones, island ancestors worshiped. “White-
Robed, upon this ocean passage, we search
Two lights, life’s two sides: within, without.”
“Without?” I asked. Explanation given, void
Not of light or life, sunrise on foreshores, sea-
Moving forces all around, reaching forth my
Arms, creation spun from light-limned earth,
Flesh and bone, first breath of life, forces
Restoring, healing warring wounds. “Your
Questions asked,” Hremsa prompted. “What
Will happen to family fishing island? Have we
Peat, survive next two winters?” Visions upon
My mind thrust, golden-gleaming light within.
Long as your parents live, island life persists,
Peat or no peat, their deaths mark end, ruin.
Too much revealed, my mind confused, I asked,
“Is it their presence or death date, marking
Island ruin?” “Yes. Of this you shall not speak,
Burdens of sighted wisdom.” Such emotions
Upon me fell: grief, saddened realization,
Beginnings, endings, twilight rising, mid-day
Radiance, golden chariot overhead, years
Dusk-passing, lifetimes given, forfeit.
This heat weary-written poem concludes with Part 5.
Willow’s voice is wilting. Thanks for reading.