Patricia Monaghan

Dark has fallen. It grows cold. I have had no rest since
meeting my enemy. Aha, they are dead, they are dead,
they could not kill me. I rose above them and kicked
until they rolled away like rotten apples in a dying
orchard. They are dead, dead, they could not kill me.

I tear at crimson silk until I am free and naked in the red
dusk.

Feathers, I say, feathers! My skin prickles in the high wind.
Now I fly, sleek and strong, high above that field. I see
the battle’s dainty pattern, retreats, advances, the
ragged lines of war. I sing my victory song.

Men tire me. I want to sit in a crabapple and eat sour fruit. I
want to perch in a twisted oak and feast on acorns.
Trees call out to me, here, stop here, come down here.
They wave their offerings of fruit and seeds. Northwest
I go, into the hills in search of an ivy-topped tree.

In Bearaigh forest I alight, wings weary from flight. I sing
softly, my victory song. But I hear noise: men, armed
men rushing into the wood. I hear them calling.

Sweeney, they say, come down to us. Slender Sweeney,
leader of hosts, comely crystal-eyed king, come down.
Lead us again into battle, red-handed Sweeney, man of
gore. Come back to us now, Sweeney, Sweeney, they
call.

My feathers rise and spread. Sweeney? Do I know that
name? I cannot fit my thin tongue around it. Why do
they call Sweeney, Sweeney? I knew someone of that
name, once, in a place called Mag Rath. I grow curious.
I wish to meet him again.

In my heart lies a map. It shows the way to a four-gapped
glen tumbling with waterfalls, green with cress and
sorrel, black with sloe. Clean banks where I can nest,
great ivy-topped trees where I can perch. I must fly
there. I must not sleep until I find that place without
sword, without spear, without mead, without warriors,
without kings.

Glen Bolcan: Sweeney is there. In my heart is a map. The
journey is long from roost to roost. I must begin.