The aisling receives you in caverns of air,
illusions of pleasures and platters of boar.
At first you will see her – and ken she is fair –
but then you will swoon with her grip which is fierce.
Her passions are piercing – to them you will cling –
her visions are cutting – her insights are keen.
You’ll long to be fleeing, and how you will keen!
Her voice, it is grave, dear — belonging to barrows.
[Poem written from the word prompt “aisling”, courtesy of #WordStew and twitter site Poetry Girl (@illustrous1).]