Albion

I’ve heard that when it rains in Albion for forty days and forty nights, the mist dragons move out to sea to mingle and play among the clouds.

I’ve heard it because they told me themselves; I saw two and two again dancing on a rare slip of cirrus floating above Purbeck on Sunday.

“Rain is the water’s joy,” they said, and they showed me how to make medicine from marsh fire.

“Warmth flows heart to heart, hand to hand,” said the dragon. “The Druids knew this: Albion is a watery land.”

So, I sparked the tinder bark of ash in my soul to kindle the heartwood that burns with a hot flame.

And I learned not to mourn when it was not time to mourn but instead to call to the trees by their secret name.

Now when it rains in Albion, I see rivers of dragon poetry cascade from the sky.