The wind sighs through the browning, brittle leaves
dark and whithered under threatening sky.
The owl calls 'who?'; her question pierces
the heart and soul of this lonely place.
We know her, this lady called Blodeuwedd,
the flower-face, Hag-Maiden of the Night,
she queries us with the age-old questions,
plaintively asking us who we are.
We barely fathom the place she lingers,
balanced upon the threshold of forever,
begging response and calling out riddles,
the answers as elusive as she.
How can we know Blodeuwedd's lonely plight,
vanquished to haunt the shadows forever,
slipping through mist on flowery wings
remembering Lleu once called her his queen?
Meadowsweet, with her bright blazing eyes
peering through the night, penetrating stare.
Gwydion's wrath might seem justice, but
who can know the heart of a flower?