Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Moorchild

The taste of Bournvita reminds me of something.
Blown glass, warm tea cups, sunny wood reeds...
Each sip of warm liquid greets tongue, lips, cold fingers
Stirs gently old feelings
Dark Moorfolk bag pipe
dancers fringing my memories
Come closer as each swallow strengthens my intake
Diffuses till everything turns richly brown
And all that I hear are strange songs in my head
Familiar, they know me, and strain to break forth
But the rim tips, the warmth drains
And my cup is empty.

10 comments:

Strawberry Girl said...

Such imagery... you captured this moment so well. Terrific piece!! (I really like the lines Dark Moorfolk bag pipe and dancers fringing my memories...)

Shadow said...

such comforting associations

Beloved Dreamer said...

Wow, excellent. You are indeed a Celtic child of the fairies,Drink deep and dream sweet.
Lovely


love-bd

TheChicGeek said...

Very pretty poetry.

Jaya said...

haha i love you too mango

Cynthia said...

A wonderful, rich weave of
memory.

Garnetrose said...

I like this very much. I am not celtic but one of my friends is and she would highly approve.

Shell said...

Beautiful poem. Very enchanting.

Calli said...

Yes, very enchanting! Thank you! and for your recent visit!

~Calli

Cynthia said...

Wonderful images are playing
inside my head while reading
this beauty of a poem.