Mither voices through the mizzle,
through the mist, mist-numb mutters.
He fails to muster them at first with His voice.
Hoofbeats louder, huge round hoofbeats of His Horse.

“COME!”

Mistlings mither through the mizzle,
seep, sink, sit, slither in the godless grey
drizzle of forgetting until the voice of a God loud
as the cracking of glass beneath the hooves of His horse calls.

“COME! COME!”

Awake the mistlings remembering,
their misting reassembling into a mither of forms.
They look like something viewed through cracked glass.
They teeter, totter, diused limbs pale, severed, crunch of footfalls.

“COME! COME! COME!”

Oh the baying of the hounds rounding, 
bounding, barks, bristling hackles, woofs reign!
He rounds them up, gentle guidance, touch of red nose,
hand on arm, “Don’t dither,” “remember, remember, remember.”

“COME! COME! COME TO MY FORT!”

Oh these feet know the path, the way
when the mind does not, misty heel, misty toe.
One foot before another soul-forms remembering forest,
foray up river, up hill, up mountain, to the in-the-air turning fort.

“COME! COME! COME TO MY HALL!”

Misted ones mix and dance no longer
mizzle-like but blue and red as blood and water,
the only drizzle sweat upon their brows before they sit
and partake in the feast of holy leaf-meat and ever-flowing mead.

“COME! COME! COME TO MY CAULDRON!”

This drink is not one of forgetting –
they know themselves now and the pain
as He sings their soul-names voice resounding
like the sound of shattered glass is outweighed by beauty.

“COME! COME! COME TO BE REBORN!”

The waters in the cauldron are blue
as the infinite seas of the Deep and filled
with blood and there are stars shining and each
beholds a star and reaches out and becomes like glass.

A poem and artwork that came to me as I was revisiting the traditional lore in recent articles based on my experiences of witnessing Gwyn guiding the passage and rebirth of souls.