Shape-shifter

The shape-shifter, Púca, in Irish mythology is a tricky guy. His moods vary hugely, from malevolent to mischevous, even, on occasion, to kindly. There is more than a suggestion that sightings and encounters with the Púca were alcohol induced. So, arriving home in the early hours with a variety of wounds on the body would, don't you know,  result from an unfortunate meeting with a puc goat on the  narrow road home.
There is however, in Púca's various guises, iconic images picked from the Irish landscape and  Irish lore. Though not of Irish origin, he, like so many immigrants over the centuries, became more Irish than the Irish themselves.
Here is Elaine Leigh's stunning 'Púca' which features in our collaborative work Above Ground Below Ground.

                                                                   
                                                         Shape-shifter

Gull I fly, spark from an anvil;

goat leaping, fraying rag.

Eagle swooping, slivered sunlight;

horse exhaling piston-jets of steam.

Hound darting, arrow-swift,

hare sentinel of the jewelled morning.

Lizard slithering tress down stone,

bull pounding bodhrán of the earth.

A Meeting with Winter

The Cailleach is the goddess of  winter, Bríghde is her summer counterpart. A hag that can appear as a  beautiful young woman; she carries a staff that struck against the ground will cause it to freeze over instantly. She is associated with mountains, hills and cairns; the formation of landscape and the annual cycles and renewal in nature.

The looseness in interpretation of her powers, the large number of legends that surround her, her symbolism in relation to ecology and the state of the earth today, the leeway one has to represent her in  myriad ways makes, (and has made), her rich material for writers, poets and artists.

 

Driving a herd of goats down a gorge:

primeval creatures with colossal spiralling horns,

coarse matted hair, yellow eyes. 

Tendrils of hair trailing down her back,

silver streams through the buff tussocks,

the swirled bronze bracken of winter. 

Her face, graphite sheet of a waterfall;

eyes, dark crags in its flow;

at its foot a rowan’s red mouth. 

A staff held high,

above us hail stones ripened for a fall;          

she drove us from the mountain with lashes on our backs.

                                                                     from Above Ground Below Ground