~Mac Lir~
He speaks to me in storms,
Does the god-father.
He talks to me on the wet winds,
In the thrashing tree branches,
In raging howls that are his deep laughter.

I am far, far from his island,
Far from his sea.

And yetand yet he speaks to me.

He sends me rain to wash my soul.
And brings the mists to whisper to me.
And in a rare fog does he wrap the trees.
When I walk to the rivers bank or bridge,
Or see the heron on the watery edge
I know, I know he speaks to me.

- Jessica Bozarth, 2003

Green bursts out on every herb,
The top of the greenoakwood is bushy,
Summer has come,
Winter has gone twisted hollies wounds the hounds.

The sun smiles over every land,
A parting for me from the brood of cares,
Hounds bark, stags tryst,
Ravens flourish, summer has come.

Irish poets


~Oak as Driud as Wisdom~

Study carefully how the oak grows,
And you you will know what the driud knows
Roots in the past, both myth and prose,
Strong trunk of thine,
Not these or those.
Limbs that can move when the wind blows,
Branches on high, each grows and grows.
Nurture carefully how the Self grows,
And you will know what the wise oak knows.

Amber Wolfe
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