Legend

For three hundred years
The children of Lir lived as swans
Every day a beat of weeping wings.
They had seen the clamour of dreams,
Our dreams; some soaring,
Some floundering on the rocks of Rathlin.

There are no solutions.
No purchase plan on immortality
When death stands with folded arms
In the shallows of the bay.
Every voice must forgo its struggle,
Each defeat seem minuted
In the sea's silver ring.

And yet the waves
Have muddied His reflection,
Sun-beams spun their tender deceits
Then so must we.

Riding high like the sons of Kintyre,
Stirrups around the legend
They who were born of the earth
Have hauled themselves into the air.