image from mythologyworld.com
This poem is written utilizing the Seadna form.
Syllable count verified via howmanysyllables.com
Poem written for “Green to the Gills” poetry contest, Daniel Henry Rodgers, sponsor, March 5, 2026.
Beneath moon's pearly milk-white might, the Sidhe dance in silver light. Their laughter lingers, laced with lore, whispered wish, a phantom door. The harvest hinges on their hand, they bless barley, blight the land. A chalice filled with honeyed mead, sway their favor, sate their greed. The moon, a mother, mounts the sky, her phases flicker and fall. She marks the time for tilling true, and paints the dusk in pearled dew. Áine treads on the treetops tall, her lunar glow engulfs all. The Sidhe arise in robes of air, claim the night, to rule, to dare. A man once met them, mad with moon, their melody now his tune. They stole his shadow, spared his sight, left him hollow, husked by night. Beware the wane, the waxing glow, Sidhe will reap what mortals sow. A crust of bread, a cup of wine~ or lose self to their design. They ride moons rays, they weave the wind, their realm starts where ours has thinned. The moon, their mirror, masks their might, bridge of bone, a path of light. So leave them milk and lock your gate, Sidhe choose fate to bequeath. The moon may grant, the moon may take~ dawn breaks; hearts will ache beneath.
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