They did not know her – gods are hard for mortals to recognise – Homer
His gate was closed. A rusty lock
kept a low profile pretending its job
but there was no quibble in the creak.
It seemed like time had stopped.
The flowers were gone.
Weeds filled the cracks consolidating the facts
though outside, the river flowed and still,
the splendid view, the hills, the horses
calling me back.
I entered. The mess was alluring.
I wanted to be one of those women,
roll up my sleeves to scrub, to feed.
I strangled a hen, lit the fire,
brought foxgloves from the fields,
washed and dried his clothes.
Red smoke rose that night
from the hottest fire.
Keep me a secret, tell no one I’m here.
And the stars winked over our mare’s nest,
jeered the shawl over my withers, my coiffed mane,
foretelling my soon to be squandered name.
The retellings on this site (though true to the myths them selves) are my own work and copyrighted to me so please ask before using elsewhere.
Published in The Stony Thursday Book No. 16 Summer 2018. Edited by Nessa O’Mahony
NOTE: For more understanding of the myth within this poem you can go to an older post on this website called: The Curse of Macha.