The Death of Caoilte's Mother

Free Verse Poem by Daniel P. Stokes

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I

She said it didn't take her long
to rouse me.  I hauled myself to sitting
and curbed a heave.  My eyes asked.
She nodded, and sent the rider back.
I slunk down.  No sign of dawn. Sighed wryly.
My mother timed it so
I'd not be called away from Eochaidh's feast.

II

We ride the miles in mist.  The land asleep.
No bird song.  Nothing starts or scurries.
Hoofs thud dully past unfluttered trees.
It's vaguer, denser, endless.
Her eyes fixed front are locked in suppositions.
My mouth is filthy.  At the well
near Clochanard I'll stop and drink.

III

I knock and pause.  Then hammer.  Nothing.
Push.  The gate aches open.  No porter
to be seen.  The hound, untethered, knows us, nuzzles.
We tie our horses, find a groom to tend them.  Enter.
The Great Hall reeks of must.  The fire unlit
and servants sullen.  An old man's house.
Fiachra, there before us, greets us.
My father, Ronan, at the table upright.
His hulking shoulders shudder
as he whimpers.  I'm disconcerted, startled.
He's pitiful.  I come behind him staunchly,
awkwardly place a hand on each his upper arms.