By Meg Mulcahy
We used to be queens, Warrior women of this island when Brigid, mother of Imbolc washed away sin with salt-water and relieved us with a kind hand as was her right and Medb had words over one brown bull.
We were the rulers of our domain of mushroom worship and magic and bogs were meant for healing not the hiding of our shame.
Now the very source of our power entraps us gripped in the Shannon’s claws, it drags us out to sea A heavy grave.
Glittered freezing foams dare sink us, forgetting who we were, our cries for help entrusted to the wings of a crow.
Words not scrawled on walls of tombs have no place in our living wombs. It is a different kind of blessing the pills of other lands that set us free While we are born into vessels of servitude - You’d make demons of us all.
Maeve would be mortified.