THE TWISTED HILLS OF MULLAGHMORE

They set out west to find her
With horses and with dogs
The night, they pierced, with torches
Through hills of choking fog

She hoped they would not find her
And alone, she would be free
To wander with the other ghosts
To fade away in peace

In her hands, she cupped her sorrow
And with water, she divined
That she was not of flesh and bone
But of weather, stark and wild

She threaded golden thimbles
That the Fates had so designed
She kept and spun the heavy thread
Spooling golden twine

She clutched the seeds of apple trees
In orchards fell by vines
Her figs and golden apple groves
The wards of blighted time

The thorny branches caught her skin
And snagged her golden hair
Gray fog choked the rocky barrens
And fate hung in the air

Before the fog that took the east
The world was open air
Her worries skipped across the sea
The poison bled out clear

Before the vines that choked the trees
The world was open ground
She danced upon the open moors
The starlight lit her crown

She keeps now to the waylands
The place that sits between
Her golden twine, so loosely tied
To the land of fog and weeds

In the twisted hills of Mullaghmore
Clear water flows beneath
Heaven above, and hell below
In flesh and bone, they meet

In her hands, she holds the water
And from it, she divines
She is not of earth and blood
But of weather, stark and wild.