Tír na nÓg

I thought it was the rain ,

that called to me,

and so I walked .

A grove  beckoned,

 seemingly manifested ,

from everywhere, and nowhere  all at once.

Dark? Was it?

The path had grown so very dark.

So much so ,

it seemed that

the trees themselves seemed to forge a cage;

bars pushed close ,

to what used to be a path.

Time? Had I noticed, what was the time?

Stretched so very late now .

So much so that

the moon itself has fled away, with its

Covers pulled,

over what was once a glowing night.

Tired? I thought , I must be,

I have grown now very tired,

So much so that even

 my eyelids fall under the veil ;

 of  a  sealing away , in unspoken concert .

I drift and  swear,

I  hear the mossy music

of  the Seelie,

wings in canopy above.

Light? Is it morning ?

The knoll where I am now , drips,

with light;

so much so that ,

it is glittered. Gilded.

Gossamer strands of green;

grey, misty and ethereal.

Reverie? Illusion?

Perhaps, it all  had  been.

The path, the glade,

the gold, the music,

all conjured ,

From a bogle’s twinkling eye.