*
…So the heroes of Albion set out for the Cave of Cruachan…
Through the Gap-of-the-Watch,
over the Plain-of-Two-Forks,
across the Ford-of-the-Morrigan
into the Rowan-Meadow-of-the-Two-Oxen
by the Meeting-of-the-Four-Ways they drove
before a dim, dark, heavy mist overtook them…
*
In the Cave of Cruachan, Very-White-Clear-Sight sat in meditation, “Mother,” she said, “I see a chariot coming over the plain.”
“Describe it,” said Sweet-Mouthed Maeve.
Said Very-White, “truly, I see horses pulling the chariot:
two stormy dappled greys
alike in colour and shape;
nostrils wide
heads erect
ears pricked;
manes flowing
of full slim-girth
their tails curled;
galloping side by side
bounding apace
they career along.
*
A chariot of fine wood,
the high frame’s wicker-work
creaks above its two black wheels:
its curved yoke is silver mounted.
*
In the chariot
a dark, melancholy man:
his eyebrows jet
his face pale
cheeks ruddy;
his blue mantle is
held across the chest
by a salmon brooch.
A three-pronged javelin
gleams from his shoulder.
An awning of bird plumage
waves from his chariot frame…
*
…“I recognise that man,” said Maeve,
“an ocean fury:
a whale that rages in the crash of battle,
like the back-stroke of waves against the land;
in face a man
in mien a hero
in heart a dragon;
swift, as the speckled trout
on sand stone is cut, the red
hand of Connor Cruel-Crest…
*



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