Silver Hand

Nodens, Nudd, Nuadha, 

Raise the silver hand!

Wake the healer, gird the hunter

By the sea strand.

Hail the Lord of running dogs,

Hastener of pale hounds

With redded ears and redded maw

That track across the widening ground.

That dog is resting by the sea,

With greyly dull salt-matted coat,

Lapping at the salted wound 

Of the soul too far remote.

Bright the light on cresting wave,

And dark beneath that questing spray;

The subtle folding waters hold

A soul beyond the blood and bone. 

Voices rasp out of the wind,

Shrilly chant the gulls with grim

Knowledge ever harsh and cold

Of how to die and how to hold 

The healing role.  

This same wind has flattened down 

Resistance in the land around;

Every shrub and grass is thrown

Down to the ground, like opened bones.

Rotting wrack and ruined shells

Abound among the broken rocks;

Before me lies the churning well

Bounded round by shattered blocks:

Surging spirit of the wrathful deep,

Bring us back to the dark sleep 

Of dripping death to reason dry

And ruin brought on iron lies;

The folding of the flowing mind,

Holding in the cold womb of unbecoming

No longer one alone to rise;

Annihilation of this kind. 

The breaking sea is rising now,

Driven up by urgent gusts

To roil and thickly turn around 

In a fervent hurling rush. 

In the furious foam is clear a joy

Adoring the pale sand to toy

And tear away the ragged veil;

Bare the naked rocks but not destroy 

Their spires and their piercing edge,

Only wear away in sensuous war

What will forever rise again.  

Hail Nudd, hail Nuadha, 

Hail the silver hand.

Hail the healer, hail the hunter,

Hail the sea strand.

---

TWM GWYNNE

Eco-radical poet and writer, wandering child of misted valleys. More of his writing can be found at his blog ydyngwyrdd.wordpress.com.