KYNA

A beauteous sorceress on Inishmore dwelled;
flora and fauna for their welfare she spelled.
In tawny eyes blazed the fire of the sun;
her unbridled wrath could the strongest man stun.

All day she'd wander o'er hummocks and thro' vales,
soldier on, defiant of rain, snow and gales.
‘Twas as if her great strength from Nature she drew,
subsisting on berries, pure nectar and dew.

The villagers, they'd flee when e'er she appeared;
heedless of her goodwill, her curses they feared.
"Ah, 'tis centuries now, she ne'er seems to age;
'tis rumoured she doth with Dis Pater engage."

“Her true name unknown, her origins obscure,
Kyna, the wise one, hath had much to endure.
‘Tis said she calleth the old Cailleach mother;
scarce doth she utter a word to another!” 

Clad in a mantlet the hue of fresh spring grass,
blossoms in hair, she seemed a gleeful young lass.
But one look in her amber eyes and you’d know,
of wanton vileness she was an ardent foe.

She’d the warmth of sunshine, the cool of a lake,
the touch of an angel, the bite of a snake.
The men, though her radiant beauty did admire,
ne’er looked her way for fear of rousing her ire.

To all guileless hearts she appeared kind and wise;
the children, they swore they spied love in her eyes.
Their infant worries and hurts she’d tender soothe;
blooming she'd seem, as she rejoiced in their youth.

Her stance e'er watchful, her eyes pools of deep gold,
tireless, feathered, nightly vigils she’d hold,
as with shape-shifting Gwydion she conspir'd;
'twas no wonder not a soul her form espied.

Where malice were extant, the pastures she'd blight;
the brutal she'd cause to lie sleepless all night;
where infants were battered, the harvest she’d curse;
the brigand she’d compel to enflame his purse.

Yet, did those sinners their trespasses lament,
spells of blessing she’d chant, their fortunes augment.
Cattle and farm folk she’d bless ere fields were tilled,
sing hymns to Brighid when granaries were filled.

At first point of Aries she’d Eostre invoke,
gather with spirits 'neath the great sacred oak,
in the gloaming before a bonfire dance,
around her little woodland creatures would prance.

And so she continued to bestow her grace,
on every soul that virtue's courses did trace.
To this day she lives there, say legends of yore,
yonder, on the charming isle of Inishmore.

© 2014 Lily's Verse
Lilium Candidum

Image: www.fonron.com
Artist: Gaston Bussiere