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I call to Manannan, free-flowing son of Lir,
keeper of the Blessed Isles, land of joy eternal,
land of the ever-young and the ever-fair,
land of the west, so far from the realm of men.
Ancient one, cunning one, tempter of Cormac,
scion of the sea, walker between the worlds,
guardian of the gates, cloaked in darkness, wrapped in mist,
master of magics, worker of illusion,
you veil the line between the seeming and the real.
Of you, O Manannan, are tales yet told; to you
is honor yet paid, on your dearest Isle of Man
and in lands that lie beyond the broad salt sea.
Fieldstones 