This is an old feeling,

standing by this evening’s field,

these dark rags hanging, strung on wire,

beaks silent and unmoving under a stretched sky.

 

So which lore or gods apply?

Would it help to free your feathers,

wake thought and memory in cold skulls,

wear a black cape in silhouetted brotherhood?

 

Should I take up your work?

Am I a familiar to a Norse god,

with spying eyes in new watching brief;

become his ears in Midgard?

 

Should I kneel before an ancient King?

Does a messiah hang in this unkindness?

Have I witnessed the end of hope

for an ancient island people?

 

Should I fly the field, proclaim the news,

take up your role of fate carrier,

become the Mór-Ríoghain’s latest messenger

and find a song that sings of coming conflict?

 

Or is the battle already lost, our colours down,

and what’s required this late spring evening is

to take my knapsack, flask and tools

and tell the farmer this work is done?