I fear not
the western cliffs,
the jagged rocks,
or the ocean’s grip.
Let the flesh strip
from my palms,
ripped by
the mainsail’s rope,
pulled taught
from the rising
anchor’s drift.
Today,
we sail west,
into the mist,
to find the pearly shores
of Uí Breasail,
whereupon,
gathered in their glory,
the Tuatha Dé Danann
will watch me
rise and fall,
with the bow of
my ship.
They each smile,
knowing,
landfall cannot
be made,
and into the depths
I will likely slip.
But,
I will stand,
stoically,
at the helm,
proud in the proving
of gods,
and the charting
of the misty isle
upon which they dwell.
©️ Obol, 2019.
I was reading about interesting mythologies earlier and was reminded of the Irish tale of Uí Breasail, or Hy Brasil, and sometimes just Brasil. It’s an interesting story about vanishing islands and the Irish maker-gods, the Tuatha Dé Danann.
