The Birth of Blodeuwedd

You, under heaven, sang nine songs for her,

here on this hill:

Math and Gwydion,

magicians before the bards found Christ.

Oak and broom and meadowsweet,

gathered to the cauldron

in deep Britain’s sleep,

making a bride for their nephew, Lleu.

What weeks to wait,

anticipating beyond the scent,

distilling the maiden from

leaf, stamen, petal’s luminescence.

You could hardly hold him

back from tasting what would

have broken the slender magic.

Making a flower woman,

in your madness,

an arrogance bound

to fail.

(Sardonic Frankensteins a thousand years

and five hundred years, before Shelley

made her monster.)

Your over seeing eyes watch

her rise,

woman from cauldron’s womb,

owl faced she arrives, knowing

something beyond sour chemistry

which called her here.

The love lost boy runs

forward to embrace

and shield her nakeness,

but over his shoulder

her makers see eyes

that are not human,

the face that holds

no love for him, 

nor can for any man.