Joe Machine

Beltane Bride

Máire go to the forest fathoms.

There are ribbons to guide your way

Beware lost roaming cattle,

Moss in their wide horns,

And the crazy stickling withy dolls

That creak as you pass by.

Shiveringly white Máire

We took your grandmother’s sheet -

Washed it in an icy stream.

It is your dress of passing

Under the dazzle-green leaves

Where none of us have ventured.

We hear there is a chapel

Of split rocks, and vaulted oaks

And a bluebell aisle Máire

Before a granite table,

Where your snow-white groom

Stands silent in the green.

A choir of jays will praise you

In your crown of forget-us-nots

And your splendid antlered suitor

Waits for his wine-berry kiss.

Go well, go well Máire. For we may never

Know you in this world again.

Steven O’Brien