The ghost of Fionn MacCumhaill

SAMurphy

I

In the half-light, he stands
as farmers might; his
weathered old hands resting
on the loose stone wall.
His frame is smaller than in myth.
A head of white hair that sits
languid atop once broad shoulders
stares vacantly across the
golden valley; drawn by the din
of the distant drums.

In these fields
he fought and died
for the fallen pride
of Ulster, before creeds
of division brought
derision to the villages.
Before the pillage of
genocide painted as famine;
His ancient ghost,
(a slumped silhouette now
barely visible beneath the boughs
of the aged oak), was
a curious child, fishing
with Finnegas for the sacred salmon.

I, too, was a child then
New to every nuance when
I saw him first. His
wind-cracked skin, lips
that craved a quenched thirst
Spoke to me in fits
and bursts in a language
foreign to its own kin,
of a lineage lost
in a war amongst brethren.

'All are equal on this earth
who search not for difference
to find cause. Let he who
fears become isolate. He who
segregates become desolate..'
he paused and
sobbed slow tears.

II

He steadied and, with summoned strength
Proceeded to then speak at length
In tones melodic, more at ease
with me, he waxed now lyrically

'I've slept for many centuries
Beneath the city in the east
To waken only when the pleas
of Ireland in despair increased
Only the horn, with three shrill blasts
Was fit to wake me up at last
The tears I shed I recognise
As realer than this land my eyes
perceive as that as long before
When warriors from this island bore
To Roisin promises of lore
That in her need we would restore
her to her former glory for
her dignity and nothing more.

‘Though restless often were my dreams
The tyrannies of kings and queens
Could never kill the spirit gleaned
That lingers still in hills and streams
Much worse, and that which worries most
Is that we’ve sold, from coast to coast
Our sovereign gains to foreign banks
And with beguiling ‘please’ and ‘thanks’
The citizens in cities danced
To worship gods of circumstance.

'But when they bled our nation dry
And left but never said goodbye
We acted as scorned lovers shamed
Who sought to squarely pass the blame
We shunned accountability;
A victim culture woe-is-me
turned farcical plutocracy
That never learned from history.’

III

Across the fields they marched;
Victors enriched by the legacies
of battle. With sashes draped
across straight backs, bowler
hatted Chaplins that cut a calm
comedy from the chaos of self.

‘Man cannot rise
against what he cannot see.’
He fixed his eyes on me;
a frail freckled child whose eyes,
bluer than the midday skies,
turned pale and grey before they cried
‘We were born under the same tree
But those who live in chains cannot die free.’

I, who knew no history
had marvelled in the mastery
of the piper's pride. The oranges;
the purples. Every lodge a float
in a sea of colour. Who sees
now the deeper red
in the promise of bloodshed
Was wiser then; an ageless
figment of a life ahead.

From his face he wiped
the well of all
wisdom. His thumb
scarred by the burst blister
where the salmon burned.

pickarooney

I missed this when you posted it. It's fantastic! I don't have much comment to make but it was a real pleasure to read.

SAMurphy

Thanks for your kind words. It isn't in my nature to go fishing for compliments or asking people to read my work, but with this and 'After the Tiger' I figured I should put them out there considering the times that are in it. I appreciate folk taking the time to read them.

cobsie

This is the best poem I've read on this forum. It reminds me of 'September 1913', for our own age. Very sophisticated and evocative and prescient. Well done, a pleasure to read.