Poetry

A Necklace of Wrens
for Micheal O Ciarmhaic, file

When I was very young
I found a nest.
Its chirping young
were fully fledged.

They rose and re-alighted
around my neck,
Made in the wet meadow
a feather necklet.

To them I was not human
but a stone or tree: I felt a sharp wonder
they could not feel.

That was when the craft came
which demands respect.
Their talons left on me
scars not healed yet. (19)

An Muince Dreoitini
do Mhicheal O Ciarmhaic, file

I mo bhuachaill ōg, fadō fadō,
d'aimsíos nead.
Bhi na gearrcaigh clumhtha, fāsta,
is iad ag scread.

D'eirigh siad — is thuirling
aris ar m'ucht
Ormsa bhí muince cluimh
sa mhoinear fliuch.

Nior dhuine me ach geag crainn
no carp cloch
ach bhí iontas crua nar bhraith said
ag bualadh faoi m'ucht.

B'in an la ar thuirling ceird
a eilionn omos:
is d'fhag a n-ingne forba orm
nar leigheasadh fos. (18)

Taken from A Necklace of Wrens 1987 and 2000Gallery Press-