Raging Star

I bin dreamin of my long-dead mother.

I used to every night

when I was nine,

ten.

Her life bled out birthin Emmi,

Pa’s grief more than awful to see.

He set her on the pyre,

her funeral pyre,

that he built with his heartbroke hands.

Over an over, he wept her, he kissed her,

her face, her lips, her hair.

Don’t die, don’t leave me, sweet Allis don’t go.

My golden beauty.

My life.

Then he lit the fire to send her,

his heartsoul,

back to the stars.

What was best in us burned to ash.

She walked in my dreams,

my sunlight mother,

every night fer them first two years.

An the same fer Lugh.

Lugh an me, the same.

It was some kinda comfert,

I guess.

As her light faded our darkness grew an she walked in

my dreams no more.

But now, she walks agin.

In the dark of my dreams,

she lives

agin.