Thrice tried

By the light of this last
summer’s moon I was walking
along a woodland brooke,
finding by my boots the way home.

By a tree trunk suddenly a woman
appeared, looking as if she was dying.
Softly she said not only she, but also
her wee bairn was close to its life’s ending.
She needed my help, but there was a glint
in her eyes. I passed her by…

Not more than a mile furher on, a goat was
tethered with a rope, bait for the wolves
and she screamed dreadful panic.
I was tempted to set her free, but I also knew
the wolves had not yet returned for the winter,
so I let her scream at me.

Just before wood’s ending,
a beautiful white horse begged
to be ridden to safety,
yet I saw no threat,
nor no need for I was but half a mile from
my bed and I knew
no banshee had cried for me.

I was never drunk and they had told me the name of this path:

Púca’s reign.

Sweet dreams came to visit,
while my boots stood on guard.