By a rowan wood my soul she flew
over the misty sea,
to distant lands of faerie folk—
a fistula forms for me.
Magic portents wing their way,
dark spells of pain and doom;
but the rowan, in its grandeur green,
lets not the evil loom.
Dark cavities, atemporal space,
render me to thee;
then belladonnic fingers
reach the gnarly tree.
It stands steadfast, buaitean-branched,
protector of the ones;
apotropaic marks that serve
the first Lammas from the sun.
Speeding spells wing in blackened haste;
rowan-red threads now entwine.
Glory in its resplendent jewels
in holy autumnal time.
Like copper fields, the green and red—
bloodletting on silken feathers;
stunning crowns of glory
amid the Highland heathers.
I sing to thee, O wayfarer tree,
portal of the heart:
guide me now to what is lost,
protect this soul’s depart.