Lugh’s son, you know me now that it’s too late.
You would not take my love, scorned the power I offered,
failed to see through my disguise.
Slippery as eels, I tricked you, tracked you down.
Though you blessed me, I cursed you – croaked to the heavens
‘Let him be emptied of the guts of courage!’
Thigh deep at the ford, iron tang of heart’s blood in the air,
I washed your clothes, scoured your armour.
Still you did not see me; thought that I spoke of another.
But now, your eyes are fixed on me,
until I peck them out . Wings flap their hollow triumph,
claw feet clutch you in a last caress.
Ann Cuthbert writes poetry, short stories and travelogues – mainly for her own amusement although she has had several pieces published both on line and in print. She has recently discovered that she enjoys performing her poetry for live audiences.