Through a mist streaked dawn the cock calls.
A thousand voices join his hail
to the swell of spring singing
Creiddylad’s sovereign beauty,
this dragon land’s hot majesty
and I see war arising.
The Tor is ensorcelled by mist.
Gwyn’s fair abode stands unvanquished
by hubris of tactless saints.
Annwn’s king keeps his golden seat.
Midst the white banquet of spirits
he considers the ritual feint.
From seas of mist the sun rises
scorching dawn’s oceanic brightness.
Gwythyr rides to meet Gwyn’s sword.
Their desperate clash makes skies intense
with rolling white and blazing red
and threatens to end the world.
Watching from her May Day prison,
troubled, torn the sovereign maiden
looks upon the trembling Tor.
Through mist and fire she struggles,
calls to halt their fatal battle.
The rivals grudgingly part.