Ireland's Enigmatic Watchers
From shadowed glens, where legends sleep,
Three figures rise, secrets to keep.
The Morrigan, a raven's wing,
Drawn to the clash, the death-song sang.
Of war, of fate, a chilling hand,
To claim the fallen, rule the land.
She shifts and weaves, a queen of might,
Her sovereignty in the darkest night.
The Banshee wails, a mournful cry,
A prophecy beneath the sky.
For family's blood, a thread undone,
Her keening echoes, day is done.
A spirit bound to mortal ties,
Her sorrow paints the weeping skies.
The Pooka runs, a shifting shade,
A trickster's jest, a game is played.
A horse of ebony, swift and bold,
He leads astray, tales to be told.
A playful spirit, wild and free,
He dances on the edge of glee.
From ancient roots, their power springs,
The Morrigan, the Banshee, Pooka brings,
A touch of magic, old and deep,
Where shadows stir and secrets sleep.
Guardians of lore, through misty air,
Whispers of Ireland.
Copyright ©
Selena Jackson
|