by G. R. Grove
In Arawn’s halls you spent a year
atoning for your actions ill;
you sorrowed not, nor did you fear
except at night, while you lay still
beside a woman passing fair —
fell Arawn’s wife. You did not stir
to touch, or stoke her shining hair;
your forethought kept you safe from her.
At end of year, to fight you went
with summer’s king, and cut him down;
refused to strike him twice; and spent,
he lifeless lay on bloody ground.
A prince again in your own land,
you found the woman whom you sought
and married her. Your warrior band
dispatched the badger that you caught.
At last a son was born to you,
but vanished quite; her women made
a plan, and to avoid their due,
the blame on fair Rhiannon laid.
But Teyrnon, he who found the boy,
and reared him with his loving wife
perceived a likeness; to your joy
he then restored him to your life.
Still friends with Arawn, gifts you made
to him, and he gave gifts to you;
perhaps in Annwn’s gentle glades
you hunt with him in friendship true,
and wisdom’s name which still you bear
befits you well. You journeyed long
to win the crown which now you wear.
Dark Annwn’s head, receive our song!
