Sequins of moonshine quiver and gleam,

Dance to the music, the waltz of the stream;

Laugh in the night of a midwinter’s dream.


Audience of grasses sway to the lilt,

Massed in steep tiers where moon-milk is spilt

On fronds of the bracken in silver and gilt.


Walls set with jewels of diamonds and pearls

Echo the voices of  long vanished girls,

Twist in the mist in fantastic whirls.


Santon Burn water-nymphs cumber the rocks.

Waving white hands and combing their locks,

While high on the rampart an ancient Celt mocks.


Up the gorge whispering glide the long boats,

Proudly and fiercely Viking chief gloats,

Thinking of homesteads and beautiful throats.


But faces far older than Viking or Celt

Gleam from the thicket where Druid has knelt,

Knowing all ages in moonshine can melt.


Mona’s Herald     18.12.62