This poem is for Jane Dougherty’s A Month with Yeats Challenge, Day Eleven.
Here is today’s quotation:
“Where time is drowned in odour-laden winds
And Druid moons, and murmuring of boughs”
I dreamt last night of a ghostly figure
hovering in the air, floating, lost in time,
his silent presence, growing ever bigger
echoing, echoing, like a chime.
What mysterious moments has he seen
while drifting through star-glimmered winds
worlds, ancient, or untouched and pristine?
Or is he here only, stuck, to one spot pinned,
waiting, watching for something new to begin?
A quiet sentry, under a Druid moon–
was he born too late, or did he die too soon?