Brigit
BrigitI
Upon the wind her voice,
a rumor, smolders like embers
in an abandoned hearth, waiting
for tender and light breeze
to stir song's flame.
II
If I could prism emotion,
I might divine her vision:
neither god nor mystic,
I glimpse her cameo, an image
of beauty bathed in flame.
III
Lost, a song so searing
none withstood it glamour.
Gone, her priests, craftsmen
shaping dreams: Remnants remain--
yellowed pages in forgotten books.
IV
Once, she forged the public fantasy.
Today, in an age of technology,
no bard paces the fire. Instead,
folk huddle in man made caves
before plastic blazes flickering image.
V
Unheard, unherald, she exists,
a raindrop in an indifferent sea
of electronic imagery.
Awake, I dream of her,
praying for a vital vision.