Castaway
Here sitteth Méabh of Connacht,
Where the dew drops light the grass,
She sits below a sky of snow,
Within the mountain pass.
The nesting birds aflutter,
Up upon the craggy ledge,
The wint’ry wold in shadows cold,
And laced with olive sedge.
The woes of heartbreak in her soul,
Her body curling up,
She sipped from out 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 forest glade,
With dobran beat and flute,
The maid did sing and rapture bring,
Receiving high repute.
Her sister roused in jealousy,
And coveting her voice,
Twas Clodagh-Mae, in spite did say,
At Méabh I’ll not rejoice!
So rushing to the hills in haste,
Unto the Irish sea,
The injured maiden sore disgraced,
Determined for to flee.
She roved the caves and everglades,
And walked upon the sand,
Saluting birds with winsome words,
And creatures of the strand.
Before she curled into a ball,
All paralysed in pain,
The galling pang her sister brang,
By voicing her disdain.
She searched for all her mother’s might,
Clíodhna, filled with love,
And prayed to Manannán mac Lir,
Her father up above.
I’ll set my thoughts on love alone—
The force investing life,
And watch the sea to comfort me,
To dissipate my strife.
Recalled to life she duly rose,
Returning to her kin,
Her misery lost in the sea,
To gaily sing again.
Unto her kindred clan she fled,
Her sister sore contrite,
Reciting lilting melodies,
To fairy folk by night.
AD Lovkis, 16/08/25
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