You moved backwards
down a path laced with mist,
pine & dirt scented. A green light
brightened the night scene,
tracing the bleached birch trees,
engulfing you: a secular heaven—
Have you returned to the sidhe?
There must have been a procession,
in your honor: the drumming of feet
against the path, music from harps
and flutes filling the space between
bullfrog songs and owl chitters. Have you
returned to the mountain side—
to that chapel hidden in the hillmound?
You must be there, meditating within
gardens of hanging vines and ancient trees
where golden leaves shake off rain drops from
a ghostly breeze into the fountain below:
a silver surface reflecting your presence above.
