The Water Horse

At first it was only in her dreams
That he came and lay with her. 
 
On the day 
She was supposed to be minding the cows 
In Sheep Cove (she was reading 
Dickens, The Old Curiosity Shop, 
And cows were the last thing on her mind) 
She saw the porpoises flocking out in the bay. 
Her heart almost stopped. 
She thought they were her cows, all of them 
Fallen at once from the cliff to the water. 
She thought she’d get a hammering at home 
And she had jumped up in her agitation 
Before she saw what the bodies were. 
That was the first time he appeared to her there. 
 
And after that 
He came to her again and again. 
At first his clothes seemed so strange to her: 
The breastplate, the fishbone greaves and the casque, 
The long gloves made from the skin of eels, 
His whole style recalling 
The sub-human creatures from B movies: 
The Creature from Sheep Cove, or an Irish cousin of King Kong. 
But when he took the helmet from his head 
And his fine horse’s mane loosened on his shoulders 
She saw clearly that he was a young man. 
 
Then came the day 
He laid his head on her breast. 
The sea-creatures were hooting below them on the water 
And the porpoises in shining troops around them. 
(Later in the evening 
They were seen by people out after cows on the mountain.) 
And in a foreign tongue she understood 
Though she could not properly make out the words, 
He asked her to comb his hair 
And crush with her long nails 
The creatures that were pestering his head. 
 
She did what he asked. 
She was humming softly under her breath 
Soothing him, when she got the fright 
That stopped her heart again: seaweed and rock dillisk 
Were growing among the roots of his hair. 
She guessed at once what was going on 
And that it was bad news. Then 
When she felt the tips of his ears she knew 
That not only Labhraidh Loirc in the old story 
Had ears like a horse’s ears. 
 
Yet although the cold sweat was running down her skin 
She gave herself a pinch in the thigh 
Or two, or three, and said nothing. 
She went on combing his hair the whole time 
Humming and murmuring 
Lullabies and scraps of songs 
To soothe him and beguile him into sleep 
And then when she heard his breathing 
Changing to sighs of a sleeper 
She undid the strings of her apron 
Gently and quickly 
 
And she ran for it, 
She made it up the cliffs in a flash 
To the house of her people. At first, 
All they could get from her was a streel of nonsense 
About seaweed roots and horse’s ears. At length, 
When her people at home had laboured to make out 
The meaning of what she was saying, they knew at once 
Right on the spot that it was the water horse. 
They rose up and put on their clothes, 
Their battle-gear and took their weapons, 
And out they went as an armed patrol 
To find and kill him. 
 
Afterwards they all said she was lucky. 
She was, and it was a near thing; one slip, 
One step awry and he’d have swallowed her, 
Right down, live and kicking, blood and bones. 
Three days after the event 
They might have found her liver, a couple of lungs and kidneys 
Picked up around the high-tide mark. 
That was the sort of beast he was. 
It was true for them, she knew it. 
And yet she felt the story of that day 
Lie heavy on her. 
She’d sit there on the cliff edge 
Day after day. 
 
And she thought about the green gleam 
In the strange eyes that had looked at her with desire, 
That was as simple, clean, clear 
In its own way as a hearty hunger; 
The rhythmic shining of his brown limbs 
And how they narrowed to slim wrists 
And the shape of the hands. 
More than all else she remembered the muscular 
Weave of his body that was tense 
And light as tightened bow. The spring 
Wound up, alert, constantly 
Ready to be released again.

An tEach Uisce

An tEach Uisce

Ar dtúis ba ina cuid taibhrí amháin
a thagadh sé chun luí léi.
 
Ansan lá
go raibh sí in ainm is a bheith ag aoireacht ba
i gCuaisín na gCaorach, (bhí sí ag léamh
The Old Curiosity Shop le Charles Dickens
is gan aon chuimhneamh aici ar bha ná a leithéid)
cad a chonaic sí ach na muca mara ina scuaine
amuigh sa chuan. Do gheit a croí:
is ann a cheap sí gurb iad na beithígh go léir aici féin
a bhí tar éis titim le haill go hobann isteach sa tsruth.
Cheap sí go bhfaigheadh sí leathmharú sa bhaile dá bharr
is do léim suas le teann líonrith agus uamhain
sarar thuig sí cad a bhí suas.
B’shin é an chéad uair a thaibhsigh sé chúichi ar an láthair.
 
Ina dhiaidh sin
tháinig sé arís is arís chúichi.
Ar dtúis b’ait léi an t-éadach aisteach a bhí air:
an lúireach, na loirgneáin cnámh éisc, is an cafarr,
na lámhainní fada déanta de chraiceann bradán is scadán.
Ní raibh aon oidhre eile air, dar léi, d’fhéadfá a rá,
ach carachtar neamhdhaonna éigin ó Bh-scannán –
‘An Créatúir ón Lagún Gorm’ nó fiú King Kong.
Ach nuair a bhain sé do an clogad a bhí ar a cheann
is chraith a mhoing bhreá ruainní anuas ar a ghualainn,
chonaic sí go soiléir ainsin gurbh fhear óg a bhí ann.
 
Ansan tháinig lá
gur chuir sé a cheann ina hucht.
Bhí na míolta móra ag búirthíl thíos fúthu faoi loch
is na muca mara ina dtáinte gléigeala mórthimpeall. 
(Sa tráthnóna thiar
do chonaic daoine a bhí ar an gcnoc le ba iad.)
Is i dteanga éigin iasachta a thuig sí
cé nárbh fhéidir léi na focail a dhéanamh amach i gceart,
d’iarr sé uirthi a cheann a ghlanadh
is na míola a bhí ag crá an chinn air a chnagadh
lena hingne fada.
 
Do dhein sí amhlaidh.
Bhí shí ag portaireacht go bog faoina hanáil
is í á bhréagadh nuair a baineadh aisti an phreab
is gheit a croí uirthi; bhí dúlamán is duileascar cloch
ag fás i measc rútaí na gruaige aige.
Thuig sí láithreach cad a bhí suas
is nár mhaith an earra é. Ansan
nuair a bhraith sí barraí na gcluas aige thuig sí leis
nach ar Labhraidh Lorc amháin an scéal
a bhí na cluasa capaill.
 
Cé gur bhrúcht brat fuarallais trína craiceann amach
do bhain sí míotóg amháin nó dhó nó trí
as a cromán is ní dúirt sí faic.
Lean sí uirthi ar feadh an ama ag cíoradh a chinn,
aag crónán is ag portaireacht,
ag gabháilt de shuantraithe is de ghiotaí beaga amhrán,
á bhréagadh is á mhealladh de shíor chun suain.
Ansan nuair a bhraith sí faid osnaíle
ag teacht ina anáil,
do scaoil sí snaidhmeanna a haprúin
go cúramach is go mear. 
 
is thug dos na bonnaibh é.
Rith sí ins na tréinte tríd an bhfaill
go tigh a muintire. Ar dtúis
is slaod gibirise amháin i dtaobh rútaí feamnaí
is cluasa capaill a d’eascair as a béal. Ar deireadh
nuair a tuigeadh le deacaireacht agus faoi dheoidh
do lucht an tí cad a bhí á rá aici, d’aithníodar láithreach
is ar an bpointe boise gurb é an t-each uisce é.
D’éiríodar is d’fháisc suas orthu a gcuid balcaiscí,
a bhfearas airm is a n-éide catha,
is ritheadar amach ina mbuíon armtha
ar tí mharaithe.
 
Bhí seans léi, a dúirt na héinne, ina dhiaidh san.
Bhí, agus gur dhóbair di – aon bharrthuisle amháin,
aon ghníomh ar bith ceataí is bhí sí ite aige,
scun scan, beo beathúch, cnámha agus uile.
Trí lá i ndiaidh na tubaiste
seans go mbeadh a hae, an dá scámhóig aici is na duáin
le piocadh suas acu ar bharra taoide.
B’shin an sórt ainmhí é.
B’fhíor dóibh, do thuig sí san.
Mar sin féin do luigh imeachtaí an lae úd
go trom uirthi.
Do shuigh sí síos ar fhaobhar na faille
lá i ndiaidh lae eile
 
is í ag cuimhneamh ar loinnir uaithne
na súl bhfiarsceabhach aige a d’fhéach uirthi le fonn
a bhí chomh simplí san is chomh glan, folláin,
ina shlí féin le hampla ocrais;
drithle rithimeach na ngéag donn
is conas a chaolaíodar ina riostaí cúnga
ag rí na láimhe aige 
Thar aon ní eile do chuimhnigh sí ar mhatáin
iallaithe a choirp a bhí chomh haiclí
is chomh teann le bogha i bhfearas. An teannas
a bhí ann, mar a bheadh sprionga tochraiste
a bheadh ar tinneall i gcónaí
is réidh faoi bhráid a athscaoilte.