Weaving threads of stories told
Ferris wheels all lined with gold
Heraldry as times of old
Woodland creatures in the fold.
The Horned God plays his pan flute
The dryads’ dance is resolute
With steps that call the lambs cute
And chase the rain down waterfall’s chute.
Pagan circles claim the holy ground
In which Tuatha de Danaan are found
Flittering, flying, floating around.
We dare not breathe, not to make a sound.
The aged forests, glens and vales
Are alive once again as the moon pales.
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