Celtic songs by Aremu Olatunde

In this acreage of life 

mill awaits our hands at dawn 

limbs thread the corn till dusk 

every pint of blood at the threshing floor irrigates the home-fields children and a revue of bodies 

render kindness to those of the household lurking by the field with sympathetic eyes, flip the soil, plant the seeds, 

glean the grains, tend green leaves 

set ablaze the crooked weeds, 

stir the snare of the fowler 

to set loose the prey, 

for what a man sows he shall reap 

slump to the reverbs of Celtic songs 

toss tears from our cheeks like an Island 

cringe when the axe splits through tree stumps, 

pluck the dead stalks of flowers in the haze of winter, 

let our hair fall at the sight of a blooming rose flower, 

tie the woods for fire as we set heart towards home, 

watch a flight of birds return to their nests 

and the violent tides ebb 

everything returns home after the hunt, 

saving all the graces like coins for the other day. 

At the edge of the night 

The three folded stetzler no longer 

does the trick of setting fire to this 

lair of dust, 

lowered pace, 

hair tinted to a mass wool 

knocked knees on slippery slopes 

the shutters wound up too often

in frosty thistles 

dogged calves dragging the feet 

to summer, 

whistling along to a owl’s cry 

webbed in the sound of breaking branches I crawl and plunge atop a hill 

breath rests heavy on long winded miles and pain accompanies every wince 

stumbled into seasons, 

before crawling into autumn 

found a cleft in dusk to climb up the otherworld, entwined in the cluster of cinnamon years and ridges as tough as the walls of Thebes, folded arms in a slump of desires 

a heavy sigh ushers in an endless walk

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