| Áine, the Forest Queen | 0 comments |
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Monday, July 3rd 2006, by Marissa A Spencer
Maybe you have seen her?
Áine the Forest Queen
Áine the forest Queen in all her splendor
walks through the fern-lined grotto
Holding in her fair, delicate hands
a flower from the verdant meadow
Her flowing hair billows behind her
as it caresses her slender form
Yon cottage sets beside the forest brook
A young man sits watching his flocks
Áine spies him and clutches her chest
So fair a man, so perfect, so strong
Her breath catches whilst she gazes
Whispering she kneels and watches
She grasps the dirt beneath her feet
and casts the dark, fertile loam upon herself
A change, a subtle almost horrific changing
Her form grows aged, lines rage upon her face
In her now ugly threads she stands bent and old
Grasping a branch she hobbles to the cottage
"Áine...Áine... ",the trees call her name reverently
"Hush.. hush", she waves her hands at them.
The wind moans once more and falls silent.
Yon man stands as he sees the old woman now
She almost stumbles across the small stream
He leaps to gather her to safety unto his home
"Áine ..Áine... " The man peers into the darkening forest
The trees toss softly as if to an unheard melody
The old woman grasps his arm and leans weakly
"Come thee grandmother and set within my home."
Her knowing smile bemuses him, and he smiles.
"Aye, let me rest a while", she sits facing the hearth.
He gathers the fire together and she watches him
Smiling she waves her hand as if to caress his dark hair
Admiring his lithe form she sighs softly to herself
The fire glows in the dark and he sits beside her
She murmurs low into the flames and he falls asleep
Young again, she raises her hands to the sky
Áine casts shimmering twilight upon him
She touches the black curls upon his brow
and five streaks of gray appear as a sign
"Your flocks will prosper, your life be long,
your wife be fair and your children strong,
but ne'er forget where your heart belongs"
He awakes and finds his guest has gone
the brightening light streams in his home
The five white streaks in his hair are now
remembered as if in a fading dream
His flocks call for him to rise and work
In his cottage by the forest brook
(c) July 2, 2006 Marissa A Spencer
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Category: Poetry
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