Notice to children

The Aos Sí (Sídhe), the fairy folk of Ireland are alive and well and are living beneath the sídhe, fairy mounds dotted all around Ireland. They are reputed to be the Tuatha Dé Danann who retreated underground after defeat in battle by the Milesians.Though sometimes referred to as a beautiful race, and always ready to dance, they are also associated with carrying out a range of dastardly deeds,  particularly the stealing of babies, and sometimes people not so young.

 

Children’s Song 
                                     from Above Ground Below Ground
 

The piper’s notes come whistling clear,

as in the days of yore;

they leap and prance to the piper’s tune

as wildly as before. 
 

For still they dance, the fallen ones,

beneath earth’s prison door;

for still they dance, the fallen ones,

enraptured by the score. 
 

A child that plays among the stones

might tempt them from their lair

to substitute a grey-haired imp

for a boy with golden hair. 
 

For still they dance, the fallen ones,

in the heat of the molten core,

for still they dance, the fallen ones,

beneath our earthen floor. 
 

Now children who must pass the mound,

respect this ancient lore;

and when at last you curl to sleep

be sure you’ve locked the  door. 
 

For still they dance, the fallen ones,

to this endless encore;

for still they dance, the fallen ones,

and will for ever more.

 

 

 

Bird of Paradise

 

 

One of my abiding memories from a visit to the Skelligs, too many years ago now, is of gannets moving to and fro in the air between us and the islands. Of all the scenes I’ve ever witnessed, this was the most magical; it seemed we were approaching an enchanted place, a rock fallen from Paradise. Apart from the spectacular beauty of the spire-like Skellig Michael rearing heavenward out of the ocean, the gannets,  white scarves drifting on thermals, gleaming in sunlight, looked like mythical creatures freed from gilt cages to mesmerise any would be invaders.

To soar, shining, across the heavens is an image of divinity. To waft effortlessly is an attribute of a creature whose divinity is so ingrained that it is taken for granted.

I came across a gannet, its head disappearing into the sand, its wings broken like a wrecked ship, yet its beak still pristine like a perfectly forged dagger, and got a strong urge to write a poem about it. Not a very original idea: the pointlessness of vanity when all too soon our beautiful heads disappear into the soil.   

 

 

 

 

 

The Wake

1

When Katy Tyrell’s eyelids were closed,

they stopped the clock,

covered the mirror,

and she was waked. 

Entwined in her hands, a rosary beads,

‘Je suis L’imaculée conception’

was embroidered on her shroud;

everyone said she looked every inch a Cherokee.

2

 

After she was laid out, with the ticking stopped

and a sheet blocking the devil’s door, 

he said, “ Let’s sit down to a game.”

“Shuffle the cards, dale herself in.”  

“Lay’ve the window open

and mind, don’t step in her way”