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.


About whitecatgrove

The musings of a Druid priestess, singer, poet and musician in Upstate New York.
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One Response to Thawing: for Aonghus Og

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

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