Our language of love. The battle of trees. We fought side by side. No one had more. Sharper consonants than you love. And my vowels well were trusted. First comes the birch. Rowan followed by the ash. Then through the alder she forms. And merges with willow. The hawthorne blossoms. As the oak guards the door. She is the hinge on which the year swings. He courts the lightning flash and her. Summoning the spirits. Through incantations. You said the thunder god seems to have. And our enemies are the reed. But we knew the furies held the holly sacred. We were insulated. In a circle of words we'd drawn. With wisdom sent from nine hazels. A rowan fire and a willow rod. At ten comes the vine. That generates bramble wine. The constant change of the night sun. A song in the blood of the white bull. Our language of love. The battle of trees. We fought side by side. No one had more. Sharper consonants than you love. And my vowels well were trusted. From ivy leaves is an ale that can unveil. The hidden meanings and serpents. Only revealed through visions. Yes vowels could insert. "a" was for the silver fir. The firs of course. Then came next. With heather at her most. Passionate. The white poplar's gift to the souls of the dead. A promise that it was not the end. But for the vine the "u" its coffer. Vowels and consonants. The power of trees. The power they hold. The power of prose. So when the church. Began to twist the old myths. They built their own tower of babel. From ulster to munster. The reed gave way then. To the elder. The earth turns her will. So that night follows day. From dawn to dawn. Fom winter to winter. At day the ash had power over the alder. Our language of love. The battle of trees. We fought side by side. Then he said to me:. "I've dodged bullets and even poisoned arrows. Only to be foiled by the blade of a vowel"