The Bard's Path

Leabharcham lies to Conchobhar

By Jenne Micale

her face -- a riverbed
in high summer, webbed with
grief that cracks as mudflats,
and cattails of hair hang

ragged and gold, yet shot
with tarnish. skin is bark
sloughing on the hard ground
strained by a drought of joy.

the very image of
the Cailleach, blight's white crone --
spring's bud blasted by
the hard wind of regret!

leave her to her bleak home
in the leaf litter, man --
a warrior should have
a beauty like sunrise.

such i tell you, old friend.
with my Druid tongue, i give
the unaccustomed lie
to king stag in his hall.

and why? for the twigs in
my crane bag have always
their alphabet of
truth, although twisted, bent

as winter's brow, as my
own hag hand. but here -- here
is what i do not say,
what i deny you, king:

that love's laughter lights her
hair, her green eye, her bird
of a soul -- firing her
brand, a star in the dark

as his arms, circling, sweep
her from the grass's green bond --
a whirl of air and sun,
desire, dream and sunrise.

no hardship can chip it --
no grief can cage a soul
fledged to freedom in the
blue with its mate soaring.

but see -- the words i twist
do not lie so much, king.
they are but a vision
if she had stayed with you.

(Ed Note: This poem is from Jenne’s upcoming album, "The Twisted Book".)