10
Taladh na mna Sidhe, (The Fairy’s Lullaby)
She came as a whisper
From her own fair folk,
Over the bridge between worlds.
Called by the cries
Of the one forgotten, forlorn.
A shining face above the cradle,
Cold long feet upon the floor.
Golden as a graceful willow
In winter time on Camalaig Bay,
Silver as moonlight
On the flanks of Beinn na Creiche.
To hold and cradle
One small dreamer
Disturbed by the silence of a room,
The merriment of the hall.
The world found cold, empty
Wrapped once more in love
And soft singing:
Look, my child,
Fine limbed, small brightness,
Lithe and graced with all.
My dream eye
Sees the same one
A master amongst stallions,
Strong grasp, clear calling,
A glory of lordship
In the morning, laughing.
On the mountain,
Amongst the grass-warm breath
Of the peaceful kine,
A gatherer of silk milk,
Dressed in forest, dressed in snow,
Dressed in pasture sweet,
You my child, a habitation
Of delight.
The distant chink of harness
Shining in the setting sun
Leading your people
Harvest-home,
The chattering of women-folk,
The earnest sower.
You, who shall remember
The tenderness herein:
The warm womb,
The gift of my breast,
The throne of my knee.
Satisfied, content
Nurtured by the honey
Of dear love.
My lithe one,
My red and white one,
My strong yew sapling,
Dark green and handsome.
My laughing one,
Nodding golden iris by the shore,
Bright alder and birch leaning graceful.
A whisper, a chatterer, a sparkling of joy.
Last year, you were a seed in warm darkness.
Now you will soon be leaping high,
Running with song about the house,
About the fields, under cloud and sunlight.
May you not be harmed,
May you not be wounded,
May you not be slain,
But grow old and grey,
Crag-browed and wise,
A sharp nose for deceit,
A sharp eye for openness.
Child of warrior from the cold North,
Child of shadows, melting, lilting.
An in and an out you have,
A strong turning hope for peace.
A warrior’s hand you have for the land
Of the father of your father,
The mother of your mother.
The babe asleep,
She turned and left.
Tune turning in the air,
A waivering of rushlight,
A scent of honey milk.
A mother melting back
Into the weave of dream.
Footsteps soft fading,
Soft fading.
simonhlilly 
of the things of yours i’ve read, i think this is my very favourite so far.
Thank you! It is based largely on a ( probably not very good) translation from the Gaelic. I took the main images and ideas as a starting point for the actual lullaby. There are many levels , many areas, many metaphors, many echoes. It sort of stands alone but also goes to the heart of the main themes that are being woven together.
do you speak gaelic yourself? i’ve always found it sad that my own language of tradition and lore is no longer spoken, so we’ll never really know how it sounded. it’s good that we still have some in writing, though.
many metaphors, yes, and the echoes have marvellous resonance.
such a rich lithe lullaby
nurtured by the honey of dear love….. i am nourished
Thanks. No, I don’t speak Gaelic. When I was about ten or eleven I bought a book and tried to learn, but without hearing the language its pretty difficult. There must be a better way to teach languages in schools, it should be an exploratory joy, not a tedious, irrelevant purgatory. ( but that ‘s pretty much how all subjects are these days. Too much emphasis on competance levels, not enough on the joynof activating brain cells)
Simon, I loved the mother melting into the weave of a dream. Great imagery.>KB
Thank you for your supportive comments! I shall continue til the end ( finishing not being a strong point of mine, I prefer the start). Putting each part up in this way is a spur to complete. As far as I know there are two more sections. One ready, and the final part sprouting some new leaves….