Finnabar’s vision







Finnabar stands on
the snow swaddled summit,
eyes closed, He feels the weight
of years on stooped shoulders.

He pulls his cloak tight
And once more he waits
to take the measure
of the rising sun.

Seventeen winters
he has marked the place,
on the half day between
Imbolc and Samhain.

Afraid that he will not
complete the task,
that age will stay palsied hands
a map to guide the builders.

Frustrated by dark years
cloud obscured rising sun,
now he is ready,
the sky bright, dawn nigh.

He carries Lug’s spear
carved by master Esras hand,
black polished thorn,
to eat and etch the sun.

It is tall, three spans
as tall again as he
and on its wide top
he counts nine notches.

He stands now at what
will be the centre,
earth energy sings
the thrum of time stood still.

The cold entwines it claws
On nose and set jaw
but he takes no notice.
And then golden rays spill-

Like fire and honey
Over the horizon.
Finabarr cuts deep
notching lug’s black spear.

He strides then the length
twenty of his paces,
and sees the hewn stone
of the un-built passage.

Its width from finger tip
to stretched finger tip,
its height trice his own
and so the dimensions.

With the eye of Danu
he sees it rise in time,
the work of father and son
of Dannan blood.

Sees the might mound
of supporting soil,
the sweat and toil
to raise the capping stone.

He sees the coracles
follow the river
to the surging sea
The search of granite.

Sees them voyage,
to Meadbh and Malachi
hills of silver and gold,
quarried load by load.

The boats return
as one on one
the stones are stacked
until the work is done.

He sees the teachers
and scribes
carve the histories
into the living blocks.

He reads the stories
written there, birth and death
and birth again,
with the new years sun.

And so he walks its girth
counts twenty standing stones,
he walks its depth
the place of Danu’s strength.

And there he waits in waste
as Danu shows him
the peoples last day,
death of the Dannan race.

In the vaulted chamber,
Half a millenium
past his days and death
he sees, bright light of solstice.

Looks to corbeled ceiling
sees the beads and baubles
stone cut basins
in each sacred recess

He bows to the bones
mother, daughter,
father, son
and then he sees-

His own bones carried in.
Bones now old and dry
blackened by funeral pyres
of many years before.

He merges with the bones-
of old Dannan lore
the people seal the door,
Dannan blood is no more.