Picture by unknown artist
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My lady of the hills,
Raised
Above ashes and broken mills,
May I have this dance?
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Boots are soiled,
Hands are cracked,
Yet I know
You shall not draw back.
For
The fields of Caer
Bow at your feet;
Your fingers and the sky
Constantly meet.
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I hold your hips,
Sturdy and cold.
Your white skin’s rough
Though sweet to behold.
Under my lips,
You do not shiver
But reply with a kind of glee…
What kind of madman would kiss a tree?
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Herons
