A Celtic Prayer

Oh, Lass, rejoice-

What matters now what hearths one sits beside at evening,
who or whoever-not regards the strength and grace within our arms,
and whether or not faint whispers, passing fancies of devotion come, spoken
oh-so-deftly for awhile, whether they last or wander for a time?

Whether, for a time the sun lights upon the brow, singular at first light?
Whether anyone gathers the White Campions, Sea Lavender and Meadowsweet,
the Wild Orchid and Forget-Me-Nots, and ribbons them unto a fine bouquet?

Sometimes the flowers choose to still themselves, steady, on the ground, unswayed.
Are they not still sweetly strewn by angels for sheer joy,
Heaven-sent upon on the meadow-grass each dawn?

Fairest one, remember always the Gabriel-Guardian of your first-drawn breath,
that the sweetness of your every sigh, the hair upon your head
is counted precious as the orchid's tender wisps along the air, flowing 'neath
the quiet eaves of every churchyard door, remember-ed.

Never, ever are we in the looking glass alone. For ever beside us, at our going out
and at our coming in, ever with us are the angels and the cherubim,
every hope our hearts construct already grasped.
Ancient legends burst aloft, our dearest
prayers soar swift as meteors, precious as glimmering diadems amid the stars.

The Rose Excelsia, our hymn, the Laurel of every field,
sweet scent of honeysuckle on the vine
and ancient voices, in blood memory of delight shall root us.
Music of the spheres camp upon the Water Lily of our heart-dream's heirs.

Lord of the Dance gleaming, glimmering, our first, real love, before
all others, beckons. Our Beloved's song, the golden harp
shall gather us first unto His garden gate, and at last
shall we come to know Whose we are and
we shall sing of our heart's delight,
in joyous praise.

Kathryn Forrester-Thro, Obl. S.B.
Poet Laureate, Clan Forrester Society
Poet Laureate Emeritus of Virginia
Foundress of Mary's Joy
The Charism Art Movement