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Ierne

Emerald walking in fog.
A name given Her by Time and
by the Creator of the sky and sea
and of Time itself.
She wanders through the sky bereft
of life, of hope, of love.
Bereft, I say; and yet, not.
She is complete in and of Herself.
And so, when I visit the desolate expanse
of sea and sky and drifting sand
I feel close to Her.
She is kin to the night and the cold and the rain.
She makes love to me in the mist;
caressing my hair, touching my face,
wooing me with gifts of silver from the moon,
and painting the sky in colours everyday.
Each dawn is a study in red and gold and green and grey.
Each night a seduction in silver and purple and black.
I reach out to the deserted winter beach
and hold Her close to me, content to have
the love She can not give.
I feel Her touch, cool upon my face;
and mine, warm upon Her breast.
She kisses me in the spray and in the storm,
and holds me in the warmth of the sun.
The night is cold, and She is there alone.
I am there too, alone, and yet, with Her.
The night is Hers, and in it She visits
unhampered by the harshness of the sun.
The night is always good, for She is always there.

The harshness of the day drives Her to sleep.
I sleep with Her sometimes in the day,
and She is always warm beside me.
The gulls cry, and wish for the night;
for in the night She is most alive,
and the lonesomeness of the sea-birds is not so acute,
nor is mine.
For She is with me in the night, alive and very real.
Better said, I am with Her
as She is with the beach and the sea and the night sky.
the moon is soft, and softens all it touches.
And She is there, walking the deserted beaches —
moving across the vast expanse of the sea;
climbing the purple-black mountains in the sky.
In the night I hear Her sing to me.
The song is not mine alone,
but I take it for myself.
It is all that I can hold of Her,
for She is not tame.
She belongs to Herself and to the night
and the deserted winter beach and to the sky.
I like it when I hear Her song, and know She is there.
And sometimes then She’ll kiss my face,
or touch my hair.
She holds me in am embrace that
includes all of the night —
the sea and the sky and the dark itself.
I feel Her lips on mine;
on my eyes my hair, my breasts…..
and mine on Hers;
sometimes soft and warm and gentle,
sometimes hard and cold and wild.
I watch Her carve the sand and polish the driftwood,
and lay out shells on the deserted winter beach.
These are gifts I keep for myself,
although I was never in Her mind when She gave them.
At times She can feel her aloneness
and then She cries.

I cry also, and bathe in the tears She sheds.
The tears refresh the beach, and wash
the salt spray from my hair and skin.
She soothes my body in her tears,
cooling the burns of the sun and
washing away the hurts of the day.
She does this because She will,
not for me, but I receive it as mine.
I receive it because I am here
waiting for Her.

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