Salt

I may not be

the salt of the earth

although it sounds 

enchanting

but surely there is a place

that I belong 

above the green fields

in the heat of the sun 

with the taste of wine 

leaving a sweet residue

in our mouths. 

In the salt water

I may be more at home 

where the sirens flock 

in their own space

in the darkness

under the bright moon 

where the wild creatures 

lay in the dark waves

together. 

I have often 

sewn fields with salt

when my heart is filled with anger 

and vengeance

when the black birds

fly down over the battlefield 

on the breath of the wind

like a storm coming 

before the Morrigan 

washing out the 

bloodstained clothing 

of those who are already

touched by the 

shadow hands of

the death-bringers.

My hair is a banner

that waves in the wind

when I travel before the army,

a curtain 

to hide behind

in the palanquin’s passage,

soon the white and silver

will seed it 

flowering like salt

overtaking the dark strands

that I may become a wise woman

a fortune-teller

a witch who reaches

valiantly 

into the fire of the future.