Thawing: for Aonghus Og

Blocks of dirty white
tumble on the shore
playthings for spring’s child.

He rises, a hawk
on unseen thermals
hot air over cold

and rising, rising.
Mother Sun pauses,
watches, knowing eyes

gleaming, of that time
she paused for nine months
to help the river

heave up the young son
on her muddy shores —
a watery birth

hidden, as spring is
always hidden. It
repeats, as myth does

every year when cracks
lace the river’s white
reach. For a moment

until she freezes
anew. Then thaws. Then
again he rises.

Advertisements

About whitecatgrove

The musings of a Druid priestess, singer, poet and musician in Upstate New York.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Thawing: for Aonghus Og

  1. Pingback: Aonghus Og: The One Choice of the Young | White Cat Grove

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s