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Tue, 14 Jul 2009
The Celtic Hills from the pen of the wonderful Willowdown. Here at dodiesdreamworld

The Celtic Hills

Horse shoe pass Llangollen,
1950

 

The Celtic hills curl into the dreaming distance the mountain’s brood in ancient

sombre reverie, silver streams sing in elfin voices.

I walk without a care in the world following the butterfly of beauty beneath

tumbling clouds of summery fleecy whiteness,fat contented clouds feeding lazily on the azure grass of heaven.

I pass a cat on an old stone wall, his eyes the colour of the salt scented sea, not a cat of this earth, not a cat to be taken lightly.

I pass a dishevelled scarecrow in a field of yellow poppies eying with mute and profitless indignation a sleek black crow perched on his arm.

I pass an old woman hanging out washing in her garden.

Does she know the gleaming road of dreams winds like a rainbow scaled serpent past her open front door, through the villages and hamlets of men,past the lonely farmsteads and into the hazy highlands of vision?

Does she see the coloured ghosts of angels playing tag in the fields with her daughter’s

children, or the pipes of the wild eyed Pan as he leads them dancing through the woodland trees in a whooping, abandoned saraband?

 

At night, when the towns-folk are sleeping and the children's souls are out amongst the stars, ancient giants hurl rocks and boulders over valley’s and ravines, from mountain peak to mountain peak.

Summer lightening flashes in their senile eyes and their dark and shadowed hearts, thunder booms in their shouts of mad glee, they lost their minds centuries ago when proud,besotted Merlin compelled them to sell their brothers into bondage,to raise the monolith stones of corrupt Druid circles in the flatland's to the south.

Posted 21:53

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