Vishangro

Moon of the berries is waning to clay

Bavol the wind leap on the whale's way

Sing for Veshengro, oak ash and may

I will not flash the day glance on the strong

king's shield

Nor yet the moon glance on the frightened man

Bring her sweet peace ere she rests on the

breast of God

With the nutrnegs and oak-apples of her rosary

That counts the praying sand

Who cradles earth and water in the hollow of her hand

I was a wasp on a nettled hill

Ten thousand brothers in a nest of fungus paper

And every sopping apple held its cider sweet for my thin tongue

I was a swineherd at the court of Fionn

I wore the coat of patches with Jalal beneath the stars

Sang at the black court of Ain

I baked sweet pastries for the Quenn of Spain

I hid my alchemy beneath the stone of lies

Burned at the post my boiling brain

Made craters of my eyes

The mystery of history it is not revealed

We hear not clear but only with hope and fear

And the pomp of crime, and the pride of the time

I was a monk repelled by a woman's smell

I sailed in Darwin's ship, a mouse that gnawed the grain

Trapped by the cook on one dark day

I have spoken with the Thames in much sweeter times

And with the Medway where she rolls her waves

The snake-weed is hissing the wind of the morn

The mountains are mouthing where Albion is born

The light rays are gathering where Horus is shown

Sing for Veshengro. oak ash and thorn.