history, poetry, supernatural

Ode to Benbulbin

County Sligo, Republic of Ireland. 

A Table Top Mountain

The first sight of this incredible mountain in County Sligo took my breath away. Later some miles distant from Benbulbin, in a stone cottage, sitting by an open log fire, I wrote this as a homage to an awesome natural monument.

Benbulbin was shaped by moving glaciers 320 million years ago. It is a place of history.  and legends. Benbulbin was said to be the hunting grounds of the Fianna, a band of Irish warriors of the third century. Legend has it the giant Fion mc Cumhaill (Fin McCool) tricked the demi-God, Diarmuid Ua Duibhne into fighting an enchanted boar, whose tusk pierces the demi-god’s heart. The mountain is believed to be the resting place of Diarmuid and Grainne. 


Ode to Benbulbin

Ponder Benbulbin

Yonder over Sligo,

Through clouds pewter dark,

Menacing.

Your brow,

A thousand foot fall,

Black, bulbous,

Thrusting through Winds that shriek,

At your Silence.

Waterfalls rage

scything bones of granite,

Sculpting jaws,

Jutting through mists.

Forests beard your face,

Mirrored in lochs,

Diamond bright.

Our car a speck

On a fly’s wing,

Droning on your skin of stone,

Gouged by the tears of time.

The might of your girth,

Grounded in Heaney’s bogs,

Feeding your arteries,

The blood of ritual

The sacrificial skull

And in your shadow,

Yeats sleeps,

Your presence,

His sanctuary,

Lest others tread on his dreams.

Oh Benbulbin, Benbulbin

BenBulbenSnow

Copyright 2010  Kathleen Ayres /Aka Katy Walters


forest, poetry, supernatural, West Sussex

An Ode to Kingley Vale.

In Kingley Vale, near Chichester in West Sussex, England, nestles an ancient forest of yews over 2,000 years old, believed to be the oldest living organisms in Great Britain. Above this prehistoric combe stand The Kings Graves otherwise known as the Devil’s Humps. They are supposed to be the graves of Anglo Saxon Kings, and marauding Vikings.

 In the hours of darkness, it is sometimes said that the ghosts of ancient Druids haunt the forest mingling with the slain Anglo Saxons and slaughtered Danes. There are tales of the druids carrying out rituals and sacrifices in the hours of darkness, a darkness within which the trees bleed and change shape moving amongst the ghostly figures of the dead and the living. For some it is a place for spiritual healing, for others a place of dark rituals.

Buzzards have returned to Kingley Vale

Kingley Vale

Kingley Vale treads into my heart,

Its paths of loam roam arteries,

Twigs carve through capillaries.

Falling leaves, sleeve the skin.

Ancient peat, fleshing feet.

Roots grope the hungering breath,

Feeding, raising Sorcerer and Druid.

Slain sacrificial maid long dead,

Leavens the bread of my emptiness.

Ghouls whisper in death stench groves,

Of Wicca, the Priestess, the dagger.

Owl’s eyes light the night, as the raven cries,

Covering terror’s screams and death’s moans,

On stone altar the ravaging Warlock groans.

Moon Mother throws her silver lance,

Elf and fairy, gnome and crone,

Leap and weep in the ecstasy of dance.

The steel ping of the coca cola tin,

Snaps my reverie,

Kingley Vale treads gently

Back into the caverns of my soul

Whispering, forever, whispering.

Copyright: Katy Walters: 1998


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