A son of Lir

A veil of illusion binds him. His snowy hair and onyx eyes belie his age. Fair of face and manner, only the beauty of his voice compares. He walks as if on wing, his feet barely touching the earth. Fairytales and legends he whispers in my ear. Myths of Druid spells, witches and enchanted swans, of stolen children and curses broken by love’s first kiss. In his arms I lie,…