The silver stirs like lunar fire
Within the midnight strands;
A hush falls over salon air
As light slips through my hands.

The bleaching bowl becomes a pool
Where thresholds softly gleam;
I feel the veil grow thinnest here—
A rite within a dream.

Old spirits of the barrow‑lands
Lean close to watch the change,
And murmur blessings through the foam
In voices wild and strange.

Saint Brigid’s flame, Saint Eimhín’s tide,
Move through each breaking thread;
They whisper, Let the moon come forth
And crown your mortal head.

For Pride is near—two dawns away—
A gate of colour bright;
And I, half‑shadow, half‑reborn,
Am silvering in its light.

If not today, then nevermore—
The moment’s charm is cast;
So let the platinum spirit rise
And burn away the past.

And should it blaze too fierce, too fae,
Or gleam beyond my plan,
I’ll walk through Belfast’s mystic streets
A moon‑anointed man.

Originally published on NeuroDivine.ie