At dusk, we bring wine and wood to a small caldera
in a large grass field where we sit with our own fire
to watch candles on the hillside horizon tremble into flame.
A candle for the companion horse who carries us
and one for the cow whose milk sustains us.
A candle for faceless masses who fear and pray
and one for the woman who rides with her spear held high.
A candle for the grave of the silver-haired grandmother
and one for the cradle of the golden-haired baby boy.
A candle for the skull that protects the brain
and one for the hand that reaches for a knife.
A candle for the white cobra who kills
and one for the black snake who heals.
The hills, speckled with quivering candles,
now resemble a starlit sky, while the sky’s last light
has become the subtle purple of distant mountains.
Throw the wine on the ashes!
What surrounds us is our celebration.
Published in Crannóg