The image is borrowed from Kerfe again.
What is it in the wind that blows,
flows with the indigo waves of night,
light of a moon half-hid by cloud,
loud as the stream as it leaps in its bed,
red as the rage of a cornered boar,
roaring defiance to hunter and hound?
Bound with the deer over river and rock,
brock wending his way between path and hedge,
sedge on the lake that bends with the breeze;
trees know the answer to every asking,
basking in sun or stark in the cold,
old as the hills and wise as the glen.
When will the poplars whisper the secret,
Egrets’ white wings give the truth away?
Stay ‘neath the boughs and you’ll hear, like as not.