Dewi Sant

2 March 2020

David is the patron saint of Wales, land of my foremothers and fathers, direct ancestor of our artery of song. His name is not Daffydd, cymbricized from the Hebrew David; it is Dewi. Dewi Sant is the patron of Wales, and March 1st is his feast-day. This is last night’s work:

1 March 2020

1

At Need, We’ll Show

Hearing–some sounds–from a far, muffled way–I fell from my place as the heavy horse swayed.

I slipped like an eel–or a wraith–from the hoof as it nearly came down on my face as I prayed.

Do you know who your friends truly are, in the end? I wish I had known I was heavy in mind.

Friends who are flagellants now, who attend a harsh, terrible church, send their letters unsigned.

The words tumble out of the falsest of minds when their speakers just sway in their tracks and fall down.

I woke up alone with my window wide-open, and what I heard out there was sorrowful. Crown

of the far northern skies where I first learned my own name, show me again in whose shadow I stand

when I walk out at night and stare up at your presence. The world I was born to was this living land,

and my hand, as it shadows as if from high over, was supple as yours as you taught me to read.

I used to wake up very early, but lie very late because dreams took so long to recede,

I had vastly extended dream-passages through and between the worlds reading had shown. And before

I was finally forced to leave off all my dancing and wandering–love brought a shining light’s more

contagious yet healing soft voice that I knew if I only would let it–would sing me free here.

When next I hold out my hand, and a horse is within reach of what I would cause to appear–

there’s an apple as red, and as green, and as round–as was once cast before the three goddesses we

have to struggle right now to recall because children are lying downhill where the roots twine to be–

The page in the old, painted book, one with plates from a workshop the artists who love us most love–

It’s just gotten torn into pieces, but don’t be unhappy; the ceiling lights shine from above,

and someone up there took a picture. So all the wild fragments that flew like wild birds in a breeze?

The powerful hooves–they must muffle their magic until we can bear it–When hooves part great seas,

just watch from your place on the shore as the wee tiny fishes shine up, as if looking at you

would bring them across the old land-water bridge. Some ghosts have to happen; some happen to view

the source of the light in all eyes as will see them–Fall back asleep if you can; I’ll stand by.

Down coat and shroud and long nightgown and vestments that serve an old altar–at need, we’ll show why.

About J

Just poetry, in several forms.
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