Lus lies the omen: herb and flame. The smoke of the saining, the green in the sun.
Aine sun-face dances over the green of the leaves. Birds chorus at her foot-steps. Wield the torch high, oh sun! Dance on the hills’ forested crags!
Roll the fire-wheel down where she sets in the sea, the scent of amber and brine, the scent of spice and wine.
Birds chorus and the chipmunks sound their songs. The serpent basks on the stone path. The fledgelings now take flight, darting in the green.
Stop, then, just for a moment. Let the heat prickle your skin, the breeze whisper in your ear. Let that moment stand still, a pause in the dance. Let it last for a minute, an hour, a lifetime.