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Artefact ©

Gordon Fjaelberg
Bridgend, Wales
1992

Here I lie,
Interred 'neath sterile glass,
As lifeless, dead,
As the hands which wrought me.
Labeled thus
In Academic terms:
"Artefact
Of the vanished Celtic race."
Oh, yet I
In long hard summers gone,
With freshness
Of my manufacture, lent
Yet further
To my master's glory.
He and I
We sped the wide world round,
In battle joined,
And heard soft woven
Bardic tales,
Of deeds that were ancient then.
Legends of
Cuchulainn, the children
Of Usne,
Of Arden, Naoise, Ainle,
And Fuamnoch's
Jealous raging. The god
Of the sea,
Mannanaan MacLir, and
Lugh the Long Armed,
Lugh the Shining-Faced;
I knew of these.
Of all of them I knew,
When the world
Was fresh
And bright with promise.
Ladies fair
I witnessed, yielding
To my master,
Bedded on deep fur-strewn floors
Of dwelling-barns;
What have you,
Slowly shuffling past,
That compares?



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