Stack, Foinaven, Arkle

Stack, footstool of Thor’s voice,
Tremble the earth before the sky’s blood
So tender to melt the earth,
Foisted and fostering,
Awaiting grace on the fall of summer,
The beheading of the green season’s triumph.

Foinavon, mad wand of banshees’ capers,
Hollow festive cairn given to joy and silent dancing,
As spirits released in confinement of caves,
Joining hands with Stack in solo voice,
Twirling together as weird sisters in a frenzy,
Surrounded by elements no madder than themselves.

Arkle, ancient tongue of elvensong preserved
To name the last dread of these mountains,
Standing proud with superstition woven
Into the fabric of its cold stone corridors.
Bring fire upon the heads of such brothers of boulders,
Their ways carved, brooded on, remembered.