I love to march along the Icknield way:
Bretton Heath, Brickklin Covert and Caistor;
Fring Cross, Sedgeford and Swaffham still hold sway.
The sea sings with Terns and Oystercatcher
As we descend to the cold distant shore.
The air is perfumed with sea lavender
And Norfolk’s rich and abundant secret store:
Shrubby sea-blite, sea aster and rock rose.
Rome, come and unleash my manly desire!
Now take away my Icini motherhood
And bring destruction through blood and fire.
Look upon the Torc, a twisted beauty,
Tortured out of gold, silver and art;
And with unbridled terror, our land depart.
Categories:
torc, history,
Form: Sonnet
Timeless island woman,
I am the daughter
of the sons of Mil.
I am Badb, Derdriu, and
Medb queen of Connacht
dancing in our fertility festivals'
flickering firelight.
I watch my warrior go
naked into battle
with sandals on his feet,
the torc I wove golden at his throat,
sword and shield in hand.
I listen for the distant
possessed scream of his warp spasm
(a fearsome howling from the throat
and bulging of the face)
that with the screech of pipes
will bring defeat to our enemy.
I sit fiercely smiling
holding open my parted vulva
in anticipation of
coming home passion.
I am sheela-na-gig
Celtic god.
__________________________________________________
The inspiration for this historical piece is from a photograph in
Thomas Cahill's "How The Irish Saved Civilization" published
by Doubleday 1995.
Categories:
torc, history, people, places,
Form: Narrative