John F. McCullagh (09/28/1954 / Flushing)
The moon in shadow lay
in solstice's midnight hour.
Distant stars gave off dim light
how feeble seemed their powers.
Dark cloaked Druids skulked about,
They moved from tree to tree
gathering the mistletoe
for their dread ceremony.
Primal terror filled my veins,
the blood borne juice of fear.
What should happen to you and I
if the Priests should find us here?
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Not much of an excuse for verse, but perhaps as good as any!
Comments about this poem (Druid Myst by John F. McCullagh )
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