Who is on the plum tree?
Branches woven by nature,
canopied into laced dome,
splendid enough for one such as she.
Leaves rustled on forgotten ground,
in whispered collusion.
Day’s young light streamed through wooded sentinels.
She moved determinedly,
only she knew the way;
only she dared trespass upon sacred path,
toward what lay ahead
Waves of dark hair tumbled down slim, silked back,
alive in her fibre,
she trod the way of Druid lore,
stepping bravely over fallen leaf.
No bird sang that All Soul’s Morn.
Even silence keened her passing,
embraced her fitting end.
© Niamh Clune 2012