CHLANN AN T-SOLUIS
Children of the Light
we are here, yet you do not see us.
have always been here, descendants of Nemed,
of no age and every age.
a loose term for fools and apes, swept us hither and thither,
So we went to ground, keeping to ourselves.
Fir Bolg, Fomoraig, flint flakers.
Men, when they had the foresight to become farmers, came close to us,
Their hounds came closer.
Hounds still are aware of us, their senses closer to reality than
those of men.
In the days of Ossian, Taliesin
of Fion Mac Cumhail and his followers,
sleeping with the three sisters.
the melodious cave
echoed the music of willow and rowan, the string of a harp.
Ailleen of the fire words sowing the seeds of the reed calendar.
Bardic sorcery told silent tales of the sixth day
of the moon,
The men in white
with the knowledge of the salmon, gaining sight of Iona,
The last haven of the kings; watching Dis as he claimed his rights.
We who had moved to great Orkney teaching the farmers to build.
Listening to the words of Celts and Vikings; the sword in fist,
The shield in battle.
Fierce boats steered by hero’s and non-existent gods.
Why do men need gods when we have always been here?
constant veil twixt worlds is finer as cattle come from the chill.
Samhain, festival of harvest home and death.
Festival of the passing into dark from the light part of the year,
Cattle to be driven between
fires to the byre.
divination, dreams foretold and other insights,
Casting lots for future knowledge, first written in the stars.
Dowsing with witches rods, hazel witch hazel, and Osier.
The time of seers and oracles, the newness of the newest year.
Born of the old decay.
Half open doorway to the Sidhe;
veil between worlds thinned to the finest spider gauze.
The birth of Blodeuwedd, fairest of women born of twigs,
Meadowsweet, oak and broom, wife of Llew, faithless owl,
Cursed to live by night, damned to hunt the evening
Rhiannon riding the
uncatchable white steed, clothed as a goddess in gold,
goddess cursed by lies of infanticide; clearer of Mab’s magic mist.
the hawthorn blooms, Beltaine, the yellow day breaks as dawn;
The day of cleansing fire, the time of thrusting fertility.
The days of longer sunshine shorten the night and moon mist,
A lusty time when ‘we’ have always done
our best work.
in a time of men the Milesians went to Eire and drove out the sacred Tuatha de Danaan, the followers of Danu, of heaven and earth.
Lugh and Midir warriors both, sailed past the blessed
islands back to the glen of Ossian’s birth,
The weeping Glen, to the cairns of the Sidhe.
There they met Manannan Mac Lyr.
He who led them to other earth, to live for Millennia.
Eadaoin the twice born butterfly rode ‘Enbare
of the flowing mane’ to the same glen.
to reunite with Midir, the swans enjoined again.
Enbare, ‘as faithful as the best of hounds’, grazed the heather,
White of purity, purple of honour leaving the sour
leaves to winter,
of men’ does not exist with us within our cairns.
Here in the light of extreme beauty,
The land of Mab, Oberon, Titania, and Merope,
The land where conjurers and magicians have one foot in mystery.
Imbolc, herald of spring, searching for badgers and serpents;
To declare among the snowdrops, blackthorn, and imprints
in shallow snow.
in pregnant pose, aware of lactation performed by waiting ewes.
Man reliant on wicks and fire, light and warmth, unfolding the family from
Hovel and roundhouse.
Fires lit in glades and
Cremating the old
Purifying for the
Biera, queen of
winter, deer herder, losing her grip for the while,
celebrating rebirth, gazing for omens, witnessing the stars.
the days lengthen, the white plaid restored.
berries taken for food by birds,
Mistle Thrush seeking new boughs.
Acorns and hazel stir in their cases nuzzling into mother earth.
Creatures waken from dreamscapes, ready to hustle
bustle in hedgerows.
stretch limbs ready for the seasons of the hunt.
We, the people of the hollow mountain,
Beinn Cruachan maintain watch,
Rejuvenating our youth, just as nature, for eternity.
The land of magic and things unknown to mankind, unseen to witless
Lughnasadh, early harvest, the day of sacrifice.
The old bull makes way
for the yearling bull.
making the funeral speech for his foster mother,
Now carving the old beef!
Folk gathering bilberries or dressing wells as sacred as time.
Tailtiu baker of the first lunastain cake giving strange credence to
from her ancient Greek homeland, plain clearer.
Lightening stone thrust towards Lugus the wave sweeper,
The Yew spear and faithful Failnis baying at the sacred ball of fire
As it rises, mellow, in the morn.
Below the sentinels, cairns and megaliths,
(some in inaccessible places),
Labyrinths of stone and sacred trees, guarded by
wolves and Sidhe.
corral and husband the ‘ponies with dripping manes’.
What know you of nuggles and kelpies?
Beathac Mor, Morag or Sailleag?
All are seen and not seen, yet they exist.
names are many:
Beith, Luis, Fearn, Saille, Nion, Uath, Duir,
Tinne, Coll and Quert.
Muin, Gort, Ngetal, Straif, Ruis, Ailm,
Onn, Ur, Edhadh and Idho.
Trees and shrubs and letters, we leave
you our magic lines.