The Bard Sings …


The bard sings,
so do the strings
of the harp
as fingers brush
the soft hairs inwoven
with the hush
of a bee’s wing
as petals close around
the sound of humming.

Words are the honey,
the stream that flows,
the bee in flight
from the rose
that blooms from the drone
of the quivering lyre,
the crwth, the harp;
the bard on fire
fingers the strings
as a voice declaims.

What remains
in the afterglow
of the woven words,
the knotted strings?
Awen’s echo
fills the silence
which still contains
the sound of Mabon’s harp
from an otherworld of music,
and whispered words
from a cauldron of song.

Some strands of thought shaping the conceits in this poem are discussed in a separate post on my Awenydd site HERE~>

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