Éilis Niamh and I were recently challenged by Jane Dougherty to write a circular poem. You can read their circular poems by clicking on their names. It being the season that it is, and the big event drawing ever nearer, my mind has been wandering over the tragic legend of Tlachtga, and so this poem is inspired by her, and dedicated to her.
She lies upon the hill, ragged and torn,
Borne of the night her three sons bold.
Told a story heartless and cruel,
Fuel for revenge of an act most foul.
Howling like wolves that feed on death,
Breath-whispered curses, plotting and schemes,
Dreams of justice wrought by the sword.
Ward, the hill is known as now,
Samhain the festival held there still.
Hill of doom whereon lies her tomb,
Womb-like shelter of a princess wronged.
Prolonged her suffering, glad her end,
Transcend beyond her mortal ties,
Dies. But perhaps she watched them, proud
Vowed and geisa-bound to serve with combat,
Begat in violence, ruled by the blade,
Shade in their eyes, and hearts ice-dipped.
Worshipped as a Goddess in her still, dark mound,
Drowned in silence, residing only in memory,
She lies on the hill.