Day Twelve: A month of poetry for Brighid

Fionn on Samhain Eve

One long asleep
Is waking up.

Yet groggy with the dreams about my head
My slumber reaches out for me in bed.

I pull, like a fly in a web,
And as I struggle
Tug I on a silken string
Which wavers, ringing bright tones
Like Dadga’s Harp, whose playing
Brought sweet rest
To those who heard it sing.

Yet this is an illusion meant to trap,
For a spider waits to catch me in a nap;

To snare me with my own inaction
And kill me with its poison fangs,
For this is not kind Dagda’s melody
But the false lullaby
Played by the Burner of Tara,
And a spear tip is its only remedy.