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The Mist Across the Ford

Based on a Celtic Story

Based on the Celtic Saga Story of the Battle between Irish hero Chucullain and his foster-brother Ferdia. The battle took place at a Ford in Ulster. Chucullain is "Man of Muirthemne" while Ferdia is "Man of Connaught." This battle took place due to the personal agenda of the Warrior-Queen Maeve, as Ulster contained wealth that she coveted.


The air was silent and yet it rang

with sorrow and guilt,

nostalgia sang.

The men who once were boys together,

will court the other’s ghost forever.


I hover above the water’s veneer,

watching, waiting

below a sky, severe

with white and grey

the colour of glaring day

and the wild geese, that take flight across the bay.


Man of Muirthemne, do not your heart betray,

in exchange for adoration from the hearts of they

who vow,

not to forget you or let your name be lost,

keep that love upon your soul, embossed.

It is early yet and I cloud your view,

as you gaze into the river’s depths in lieu,

of lamenting your heavy heart to the morning,

about the death of your son and his ring, which from now

will be forever adorning,

your finger.


Man of Connaught, why did you believe,

that woman’s words, fashioned to deceive?

I was there that night, upon the fields I descended,

while you were duped and your vanity she attended.

She promised you land, jewels, a wealthy, esteemed wife,

her daughter, Findabair,

who has since taken her own life.


That woman-king, that covetous thing,

who has ravaged this province to the point of breaking!

The skin of horn is not made of iron, like the heart it tears

and calls out Liar!

To the one who rips and unravels the fabric,

of our souls, our worlds as we run from the fire,

of our lover’s embrace, the white-hot joy,

dire.

This morning will be the third, upon which the clash of

weapons will be heard.

You are both debilitated, sore, and humiliated

with the effort of attempting to bring on the anticipated,

unwanted moment,

when all will end,

emotion rendered dormant.


The fight mirrors the two of your strengths,

your love, your passions along with the lengths,

you both would go, to have one more noon,

beneath the sun upon the large plain, strewn,

with your playthings and your playmates,

but alas that time has flown like a dove,

It is too late,

It is not enough.

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The Mist Across the Ford
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