Out of nowhere you appear in fog,
every seven years vague outlines 
tease the faint horizon, 
visible for one day, then
you vanish back to myth. 


I’m moored, nchanted, longing

for this fabled island erased

from nautical charts.

Here on the mainland we are
unforgiving, overindulge, ignore

the beauty.


I’m anchored, in love, tied like a boat 
to your image.


It’s said a wise old man lives in you, 
holds gold, silver, jade.

In a stone castle, a magician moves

objects by sound, musical airs in wind; 
we cannot hear them from here,
machines, arguing block our ears.

It’s rumoured, monks with ancient knowledge,
hide in caves, crevices, woodlands, 
live on mussel, crab, winkles floating
in pools, elderberry, dandelion, nasturtium.


It’s even claimed you’ve advanced civilisation 
across our globe. Here, we have
moved backwards. 

By Attracta Fahy.


I think of my grandmothers,

their faces etched in mine,

their strength sleeps in my bones.

We meet in fields of crows,

their voices speak through the wind.


Old graves sloped down

from our farm. As a child,

I played house, tea sets

on tombs, innocent,

listening to spirits.

Daughters left to work

with duty not to themselves,

but others who cared little

for the objects they’d become.


From the clay they cry

the song of the crone,

dreams of the life unlived, hope

moves in the soil beneath

my feet, rises in my breath,

they call – willing me on

with their work.


Don’t listen to scavengers

who have taken your use,

their fear ripping your pleasure.

Scream yourself into your body.

Starve if you need, until you’re heard.


Your face ours,

your womb creator, the only real home

your self.


By Attracta Fahy.

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