I'LL ROAM NO MORE OFF MOHER

The threat of a sea, my seeing

more of the world--more

than my poor mother’s heart could endure--

tugged until she had no other recourse but

to untie her apron’s string …

 

When the news came--

I’d gone down to Tír na Mara--

I’m told she lit one last candle,

mumbled a half-hearted prayer to her lady

of perpetual sorrows … before

turning her back to the sun …

 

the thought of the son she’d waited for …

her boy who wouldn’t be coming back

ever again … because

he’d fallen for that foulest of witches--

Manann’s cold-hearted harlot … Clíodhna.   

Ken e Bujold