Did her hair flow bright as honey down her back?
Was the wild rose the blossoming of her cheeks?
Or, was her face was a web of soil-filled furrows?
Were her eyes flinty with the cunning of age?
I passed the test of kingship, I did not falter;
She came old into my eyes, but was young in my arms,
With fingers flowing gently over my temples,
Breath sweet in the full bloom of her mouth,
Voice rich as the blackbird’s on the highest branch of an oak.
For a king must be one with the spirit of the land
whether it be dressed in the bare, haggard bones of January,
or the lush green coat bejewelled in May.
*The high kings of Ireland had to lie with (or marry) the Hag to show that they were beyond being seduced
by the easy things in life.
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