Fields and Breeze

The sward dances gold, sway in gentle breeze,
In fields of time, a movement so serene,
A sight to make these pale summits at ease,
A tenor of calm in worlds still unseen

Each blade bends and bows to Lugh's lilting tune,
An aubade of  worship to buckled hills
As wind caresses them under day's moon,
The tears of new skies, the river now fills

In waves, the awns move, a flood of copper,
Bent to a rhythm, a timeless deep flow,
A travelling spire, gliding improper
A message considered no one should know.

For in the way all these fields softly sway,
Sky sees the beauty in life's constant play