Lughnasadh
Cow parsley circles the foot
of an Edith blue spruce like so many
flower-girls surrounding a bride.
Not even the rain can dampen them.
The month of shaking clean
the burlap bags is past: July of empty
yesterdays. Upon us: new spuds
plentiful in every trench and hill.
We practice tapping a half-hardy
pumpkin, listening for hollow,
pinching for rot. Heft the rugged
from the field. A soup is simmering.
The many vagueries of light: the sun
and shade and candlelight—fire
in a hearth, and hearts becoming jackdaw,
rook, the growl of tractor crawl.
The drumlin mushrooms thrive
under compost, white as they bulge,
white as August’s wild carrot,
pure as pignut, dropwort, angelica,
while the sea-fog breathes out loud
and Slieve Gullion speaks
the evergreen lilts of legend, and myth,
and crow song in the edgelands.
Samhain
The farming men are cutting the dead
hedges for the Samhain bonfire—
the bone-fire. For the culling of the old
and the coming of the new, they winnow
the worn and the sick from the herd,
the unwanted bones moaning toward fire—
the stags and empty freemartins,
the non-milkers and the lame.
But six taut udders in Derrynoose escape,
and we can’t speak of the Sídhe
but the Púca is about,
and the old hag on Inishbofin laughs
as four black Aberdeen Angus cows
and two lusty Red Ruby heifers
are swallowed by the thin land
beside the Derrynoose chapel. They low,
Not mule, not ewe,
not brute, nor moon,
but we are beastly wombs
unleashed.
So, with wide hips of great swaying arches,
driven by the scent of gorse
they go where the world as they know it
loses color, but softens,
to where the graves are open and time
stands still, and cattle can slip
like a full moon toward November,
like bonfire smoke between raindrops.
Approaching Seventy
I am remembering
the small things
now that I am
the old woman at the shore,
someone
connected by her roots,
an oyster
clinging to a rock
swallowing sea-
water’s brine
and spitting out
slow stories
little words.
The weeds of the abyss,
ripped out,
hang from my neck,
hag hair
finally
scattering
like ancestral rays,
sunlight
moonlight
starlight,
those small things
which pierce and sting
and make.
I can see
the falling acorn
crack its shell
and bury.
I can see
how I fit in
the selkie’s
ragged skin.
D. Walsh Gilbert, dual citizen of the United States and Ireland, is the author of Ransom (Grayson Books), Once the Earth had Two Moons (Cerasus Poetry), and imagine the small bones (Grayson Books). Her work has appeared in Gleam, The Lumiere Review, Black Fox Literary Magazine, and forthcoming, Thimble Literary Magazine, among others. She serves on the board of the non-profit, Riverwood Poetry Series, and as co-editor of Connecticut River Review.