the madrigal, volume i
helen jenks and tomás clancy
by tomás clancy
I remember the bay,
Pale were the glimmers that galloped on wavering crests
that churned from the gloom of rumbling yonder.
Dissipating in a hollow froth on dull scree mounds
I was only there, in the bosom of my homestead.
borned anew on the Barna shore
I felt to be free, flimsy swaying in the swash.
Burning and frigid,
Trembling under foot tentatively marching to the maw
at that, most imprecise crucible
a clattering edge of torrents scathing
Swept me away in breathless cries, pulled up for release.
Saonta is the land
Where the shore groans wild, Pitying the naïve.