AENGUS OF THE BIRDS IN GREEN

Past the malachite, lime, aquamarine, jade,
old tearose and faded sienna fraying tapestry
hung across a sea of halls -- quickly.
Beyond ancient metal garden bench
dull in old verdigris and disrepair -- quickly.

Then careful step down mossy stones,
near sleeping bowers of sweetpea buds
and pungent damp, weighty scotch pine.
Leaving a terrace behind for thick forest,
she drops green velvet gown and more.

A muted swan, rousing a bold peacock's
great swirling, unfurling of feathers
from under the thorns of autumn olive.
Knowing, his wide eyes close and fold,
and nods olivine shimmering to white.

Tender young, fearful, she slipped supple
across breaking morn park, then flew
quietly to shake the ash tree at dawn.
Imploring of the god of love and youth
something maybe not foretold to her.

This quest to reveal her one true love
somewhere in this land of emerald ...
but Aengus of the Birds, he knew;
here, he knows her changing shapes.
And change he will, soon, into a swan.

He holds her pure feather, sure waiting by
rippling lake and the verdant valley core.
The year's gone by, and with aid,
hear young sighs upon him to find her.
Then he spies her entrance on the lake.

From the darkest stemmed otherworld,
soon swimming with loons and stars.
They, by leafing willows bent, dragging
reflections 'cross silk moss-laden waters.
Tonight, and next, and next are lover's.

All sleep in silence from their courtship.
In sleep, now all may dream of finding
true love if single, alone, and desiring.
Their union gliding, loving, entertwining
together in three lush nights to love song.

(c) 2003 AnnLeigh Clair McGregor aka Rennie Lorca

My Schipperke is three on Saint Paddy's day, so he'll be wearing green.