A Poet's Lyre - In Gowan Ring

Childhood made a Poet's Lyre

Hands embroidered in limbs of dark briar

Bent to the wind's plaintive whistling words

Scattering whispers in your nettled hood

Would they fall to a weathered home

With branches of arms for a laden pillow

And years wrought of withering laurels

Blossoms now on the apple boughs

Stars are near to the shaded arbor

Once a hand could touch

Wherefore the other will search

Childhood made a Poet's Lyre

Heart enfolded in wings of black bird

Could they fly on feathers borne

When lips salute the Hazel's Horn

Or would they crawl through a weathered home

Should lips encumber a mordant moan

Bent to the wind's whistling word

What cloudy guest at this darkened hearth

What cloistered heart to hold the black earth

Once a hand could touch

Wherefore the other will search