Wise Morning desirae2020-12-10T18:55:19+00:00 Welsh from Traditional Verse, Seventeenth Century It’s the erotic sap which ripen the fields, It’s the blood of poets who’s souls got lost in the paths of nature. Harmonies spill from her welling crag, sweet rhythms she abandons to us. In bright morning the hearth smokes, and its plumes are arms Lifting up the mist. Listen to love affairs erupt in the water of the poplar grove, wingless birds abandoned in the grasses! The serenading trees with their snapping and cracking – the rough plains becoming mountains of serenity – they change; but waters song won’t quit. It’s a song that curls with light, loose with dreams firm and soft, one moment tame, then full of sky. In the rosy bliss of dawn she is mist; the moons honey flowing from buried stars. Is the holiness of baptism not god become water? Glinting our heads with the blood of grace? There’s a reason Christ confirmed himself in her. It’s the reason stars rest in her depths, the reason why ample Venus engendered herself in her breast. We drink love when we drink water. This love streams both tame and divine, it’s the story of the whole world, the wily old tale of her soul. She’s large with secrets – from human mouths, let’s be honest; we all kiss her and she quenches our thirst. She’s a casket of kisses from the mouths of the dead, captivated forever with the sisters heart. Christ could have been more direct with us: confess yourself with water told us to turn in our fears – all that pain and meanness, who better, brothers to hand in our trouble than to her who rises to the sky draped in sheaths of white. When we drink water we become kids again, and that’s no bad thing, it’s a pure moment: our sorrows drift before us in rose garlands, our eyes consumed by acres of gold. No one can ignore their destiny. It’s the sweet water in which we drench our souls. Nothing compares with your sacred shores if deep grief has given us its wings.