Roisin’s Telling 1
The time now is The Coming Cold.
The sun will lower again tomorrow
and again tomorrow and the next.
Life up in the mountain croft is restless, I can feel it.
The paths down will soon be black and
the cows will must lead the way down.
The lads will follow them down to the pens,
No work needed as the dumb animals will slowly
follow each other down,
Save for the dumbest of all who will wander off
and be found by a boy and brought on back.
Food and warmth for the Winter
for the cattle and the lads.
I am stuck here by the fire
in a house of burning peat.
Watching with wonder, again and again,
as the women prepare loaves and fish
for the Welcome home meal.
My spine is twisted as a spindle
My hands the claws of an old hungry crow.
Only my brain is sharp
and my eyes as a young girl’s.
I see the young girls twirling their hair, kneading the dough, spinning for cloth,
longing for their lads as the lads long for them.
I can hear the loud murmurs of the women within,
and I begin to hear the lowing of cows from a distance.