Deirín

Along the granite shore the bulls rush
at the beckon of a breeze
while hollered out of hiding are the brackish geese,
striding through skies cast with the sulk
of the ever fickle Atlantic slip.
The skirts of a femme-fatale,
mesmeric yet melancholic.
Outdone only by the tragedy of Lír
in the shatter of swans from
the looking-glass lake.

Odd shod donkeys,
their hooves curved like the back-end of a hammer
and a mare as sullen and silent as a full moon.
Her eyes casting curiosity coyed
behind a silver mane.
The gnarl and nip of hawthorns hiss-per ‘stay away’
and blackberries gush from their prickly seductress bush to
tempt you
back again.

Our laughter skips and we are shadowless.
Pixie petals mock the sturdy wirework of marran weave with
their savage untamed frivolity.
Their hues hum mischief merrily.
Each graze of you
each embrace echoes back a craving to buried
under warm, wide, flat stones.

Or to be submerged
in the boggy water
to sink my skin
until cured in dark ancient remedies
tattooed with the indifference of skyless centuries.

With one foot soaked to the shin
and my misted crown cradled
between your shoulder and chin,
I can see them bend the whip of westerly gusts.
There are two worlds we roam
you and I,
we and us,
not simply because we want to
no,
because long ago
we were told to listen
to the voices across the limen
and that is why we hear them
when they call to us.