Castaway
Here sitteth Méabh of Connacht,
Where dew drops light the grass,
Set below a sky of snow,
Within the mountain pass.
The nesting birds aflutter,
Upon the craggy ledge,
The wint’ry wold in shadows cold,
And laced with olive sedge.
Stricken low in slumping woe,
Her body curling up,
Drinking from the mountain stream—
A providential cup.
A magic being, castaway,
A voice of purest light,
Her mother born of fairy kin,
And of Dé Danann might.
A concert in the flowery glade,
With dobran beat and flute,
And Méabh, in rapture, singing fair,
Beloved, in wide repute.
Her sister roused in jealousy,
Because of her fair voice,
Clodagh-Mae, in spite did say,
At you I’ll not rejoice!
So fleeing to the hills in haste,
Unto the Irish sea,
The injured Méabh, awash with tears,
Did vent her misery.
She roved the caves and everglades,
And walked upon the sand,
Greeting birds and crabs and fish,
Awake upon the strand.
Before she curled into a ball,
And tightly held her pain,
The galling pang her sister brang,
By voicing her disdain.
She summoned all her mother’s might,
Clíodhna, filled with love,
And prayed to Manannán mac Lir,
Her father up above,
I’ll set my gaze on love alone—
The force that forged my life,
And watch the sea to comfort me,
And dissipate my strife.
And thus recalled to life she rose,
Returning to her kin,
Her misery replaced by hopes,
To gaily sing again.
So back unto her clan she fled,
Her sister sore contrite,
Reciting perfect melodies,
To fairy folk by night…
AD Lovkis, 16/08/25
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