The Riders of the Sidhe

Somewhere, someone must be saying a mass,
For it is Sunday and all the fields are free,
Of snorting tractors with rippling ploughs,
And the long straight lines they have drawn,
From Monday’s blush to Saturdays sigh,
Are left to the lapwings, which nod for worms,
Amidst the furrows of fresh turned tillage,
Pulling forth their wriggling rosaries,
From the musky moistness of earths pocket.


A currach of grey cloud scuds the sky,
Oaring the blue with golden sunbeams,
Whilst the wind, that wild fiddler,
Kicks up a pagan jig amidst the leaves,
Scattering its flocks in all directions,
As a rattle of church bells reminds me,
Of the exile I have chosen, the harvest path,
As opposed to that of the lonely herd,
Seeking the solitary communion of soul,
Where the ancient bard plays his harp,
And the high hills caress the shining shore.

The lights of the villages are flickering into life,
Like fey firefly’s in the distant darkness,
And as delicate dusk settles over the sun,
A new moon awaits the last matins to rise,
Horned in infancy as the old gods of Ireland,
Those Sidhe who have slept so long,
In their silent cists, awaiting the fall,
Of this interloper into their sacred lands,
Awakening now to this strange world,
they roll away the rocks and moss,
Streaming as salmon from sea to land,
I watch the eternal past, parade and prance,
With carynx bellowing, a wild boars rush,
Once more entering this world of men,
As I place a stone on your gods cairn,
When the walls have fallen and forests reign.