Of Moon and Thorn

 Of Moon and Thorn

The Wolf Moon 

comes tonight,

and the Fairy Thorn 

feels its fullness.

She has kept 

her hawthorn 

watch over the wild 

almost

two centuries now;

bearing in 

her branches

storm and lightening,

sun and rain, 

loss and love,

in equal measure,

as does every life.

Another year

she sits right rooted

fenced off 

in her quiet vigil 

like a hermit in their cell, 

always open to the 

great mystery of 

sky and hill and land,

held in the light of Love’s

own making.

She casts her black branches 

like gospels scribed 

upon the vellum of the sky,

years in the tree telling 

of her slow tale,

illuminated by 

her fragile flowering;

the harvest of her falling

fruit by furred 

and feathered

is her assurance 

of a blessing 

on this land,

her veiling the 

glint of snow before 

the gift of green.

For now though, 

bare and brazen

she awaits her tryst

with moon, 

and stone, 

and stormy sky,

whispering 

creaking wisdom

to the old crow who

sits upon her branch

who brings her news 

of all this land

we think is ours,

and at this 

at least 

they laugh

lovingly,

as elders

do, when 

watching

the games

of

children.

Inspired by a visit to the Fairy Thorn at Airfield estate in Dublin this time last year.