draoithe

The chill of early spring mist
caresses the great oak
and draws me to your branches,
reaching out,
out of reach.

Too dark to see
but for your love,
a waxing crescent,
it warms me
from my roots
to my scalp,
and I climb
to take my crown
of burning
lusty mistletoe.

My sickle,
golden,
a glimmer
in your eye.

The red stream
That spills
from the Galloways
fills my heart,
colors our lips,
and stains your white cloak
as my body
is emptied
of its poisons.

I drink from the bound horns,
we feast together,
and nothing will ever be barren again.