Riding the Wind
Those high, dry skies of flaming June
Are in absentia in damp and cold November
For the patterns in the grass do not last.
So, we must take the winding stair into the
High towers above the land of forgetfulness
Where once upon a golden dawn good faeries
Danced a circle of rare delight within the sight
Of John Mulligan who, on the last day of August
1938, according to the London Times (6/9/1938),
Met two fairies dancing near Ballingarry, West Limerick.
They were two foot tall, very well read and talked
With style upon the Kabbalah and the Theosophists
And the Tibetan Book of the Dead. Fallen angels
Cannot be as close as fairy lore abides with me.
Faeries still mourn the fall of the serpent and rise
Of the cross. Enchantment comes at such a heavy cost
Tears will show you the undercurrent of the old mythologies
Those aristocracies of thought that bleed into the
Soil and leach into the heart, where all great art is rooted.