St Berchan's Wood

Once he lived within a wattle cell,

this streamside priest who pressed

his hermit's brow to prophesy.

I see (as he foretold) the sea unfold

mysteries for Alba and for Ireland.

A shrilling hunter's moon reveals

taloned fields in due season, 

ready for plough or sacrifice.

Kings  scurry like cirrus cloud

(from Aedan to Edward Bruce),

across the wiped slate of his mind.

The Gaels in his knowing

never lacked a wise one

from his torn black tongue.

All the praise of pine and oak

over a thousand years,

crowns rattled by the winds,

princes being saplings 

uprooted by this saint's words.

This crook of elm foretells

the elusive tyrant,

wind branching to hint

a coronach keened harsh

for battle lost.

No falsehood seen,

even if he wished his 

own eyes closed,

knowing bursts through

like singing shields.

Ravens praise the poet

in the rising sun.