The Threshold of a World

Hawthorn tree
Grown near the pool,
Fairy ring
So still and wild,

I’ve come to meet
One of the sidhe,
Along a way
Eerily familiar to me.

Reach the flattened rock,
Take off socks and shoes,
Sitting down, immerse my feet,
Cool water mirrors the sky.

Unsettled, wary,
But I let go,
Safe enough,
Though I’m not alone.

Behind the tree, Furtively,
a shadow hides,
Assesses me
With watchful eyes.

Skittish, shyly
Peers she,
Between the branches
And their thorns:

There is no wind,
No sound.
I don’t ask to see
What mist obscures,

And the light softens then,
Glistens on the water,
Reflects a burnt
Red sun.

“What is it
You seek from us?”
Her unspoken question
Cracks the silence.

My given answer
Startles me,
I whisper, “resolution,” not sure
What for, or why.

She bids me scoop up
Water from the pool,
In self blessing,\
I sprinkle it over me

Soothing, tingling
Tiny sparks,
Drops land lightly
On my face.

From the shadows
Of the hawthorn tree,
At the edge of Tír na nóg,
So wild,

Aisling of the sidhe,
Recognizes me:
“Indeed you are welcome,
Oisín’s child.”

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