Missive

Sometimes a soft blushing breeze strokes my face
It flies through a window and lands with grace
Or knocks at the door, wakes me with a start;
Whispers, echoes in the depths of my heart.
As a dream crafted in the Elven realm,
It summons me to let go of the helm
For sailing is a noble art of Old;
A storm of gail, and the mast will fold.
It whirls and twirls, wrenches like silver smoke
And invokes one of the De Danann Folk.
Dark hair, chaning features and sunset eyes,
Her inaudible words and warm and wise.
Far from being a deceitful banshee,
Her Soul is crystal ; innocent is she.
Her breath is at once cheerful and morose,
Like morning dew on a petal of rose.
I am hers, she is mine, we are De Danann;
We will meet in true form when it is dawn.
But now she fades ; the World is beckoning.
The Wind murmurs : i must start preparing
My blade and shield ; many battles await
Until we are brought together by Fate.
I fasten my breastplate, ready to cope,
Thank the Heavens for this missive of hope.

Tim, 2004 (?)