Cailleach song

The cold rides the wind.
The horses of the dawn
canter toward the south.
 
With spurs, she drives her steed
through cracks and crevasse,
lips the blue of the dead.
 
The bones of the trees
rattle a shaman beat
to the roar of the wind.
 
Bear and possum sleep.
The chipmunk curls ’round
death as a litter mate.
 
But we cannot sleep.
She is light, blinding
in her ride on the snow.
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About whitecatgrove

The musings of a Druid priestess, singer, poet and musician in Upstate New York.
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