Bone dreaming

On the rock of kings
a queen now stands.
She woke in their bone dreams
to scrape at the marrow of forgiveness
with a silver pick.
The Hylands, the Heggartys, the O'Brians, the Byrnes,
the McMurroughs, the Mitchells, the Moons.

At Dermot's Cross
broken, knotted,
somehow still standing
at Ferns, this grandfather
felt contrite, waiting,
ready for release.

"If someone of their race
forgave at last,
lip would be pressed against lip."
Dervogilla once whispered
close into Yeats' ear.

One small act of remembrance,
one small act of forgiveness,
one small act of the heart,
is all it takes to fill an empty cup.

Walk that line to the rock,
your father and his forefathers
are at your side,
holy now in your acceptance.
They gave you your shield
with your sword
sheathed in dragon scales,
shining on that lump of lime,
looking out across the counties
to the mountains and the wild, sodden earth.

You have come home
to where the gold lies
at the bottom of St Mogues Well,
where the water still runs clear
to purify and heal the skin.
Drink from this cup
and all the love held fast
for a thousand years
becomes part of your queening.

You wear many crowns,
this one is bone gold.
Rise now, with the wild wind in your hair,
to the cry of your grandmothers,
Aoife & Isobel, singing laments
for the song thrush placed in the hollow tree,

The wind has claimed these words
as the hare runs past you in Dublin.

“You wear many crowns,
this one is bone gold.”