It was never the sheltering trees that started
the fight, stretching their long legs
deep into soil, arms breaking through hard ground,
bending around stone.

It was never the flowing streams
returning to source, wild sea, hiding its beast,
nor the innocent birds flying mid air, fleeing
without faith, that started the conflict.


Who did this? Took me from her that sat
on the window sill at night, singing to stars, sky
stretching itself out over the startled moon, sailing
its mouth an O of amazement.


Because I have chosen another does
not mean I’ve betrayed the child who loved crows,
dark cloak wisdom women, a raven that flew
from the left shoulder of Chú Chulainn.


And I’m still here, dreaming of the life
that could have been, I am still her,
the child who could have saved the world,
or not have done anything except survive.

By Attracta Fahy.



What if Eros
was also a tender leaf
falling in autumn,
or a marigold,
striking light,
decomposing in soil?
The wind gathers, travels
into every crevice,
as the months move.


I sit in sunset,
watch swans float
on Lough Corrib,
how they arrive
at the brink,
and observe.
Seagulls speak to me
from other worlds.


When the stars dance
as they arrive at night
in a sheet of sparkling
pleasure, into our hearts.
my heart also moves,
raw and bright.

By Attracta Fahy.

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