Oisín in Tír na nÓg
by kathryn boudouris
i.
What is creation in a place without time?
Two moments balanced like stones in an arch,
each one needing the other. Here:
the firmament swoons as he finds Niamh’s gaze,
steady as a pole star circled by strange constellations;
and there: a boy with her eyes—ice clear, yew green—
too young to grasp the mystery where the sky curves
past the sea, builds mountains and ravines in the tide.
Two moments, two loves, both of them always existing.
The sun in its steadiness reveals the nature of the place:
The child never grows old, his father never dies;
each wave touches the shore and slides back to the beginning.
ii.
The beginning:
She came to the forest like morning—
first an inkling of light, then signs of the burgeoning day:
Gold-tinged eddies troubling the mist, blackbirds yawping
as they leapt from the thickets, the quivering dogs on point.
When Niamh and her steed appeared in the glen, the field shifted
and he saw how it all had been poised there,
waiting for the moment to arrive.
The sea as they crossed contained every possibility—
solid as the rock of the cliffs, empty as the air below. Glancing back, he saw the shore slip away like a wave retreating.
iii.
In Tír na nÓg, the days revolve: Dawn unveils
an endless equinox—the slant of light unchanging,
joy and sorrow evenly divided. All the wonders
of his life, his children and his bold, prismatic wife,
depend on separation from home. Amidst a spring tide
of blossoms that never go to seed, maddened
by the gently droning bees, he craves the wildness
of the hunt, the cheerful friendship of his brothers.
The bees confide: Our wing-song is the rhythm of eternal life.
In its turn, the moon draws out his deepest yearning: Not just to live
forever, but to live together with all he loves. He does not yet see
that for mortals, the land of reunion is the land of the dead.
iv.
What is the end in a place without death?
A parting just as certain: Two destinies dividing
like forks of an ancient ravine. For safe passage,
Niamh whispers to calm the restless sea,
and he steadies himself on the back of the steed.
Yet his promise to return brings a sadness to her eyes,
like a pebble making ripples in a well—and in Ireland, a stone
lies waiting to reveal how in the surging course of time,
a life can pass scarcely, then all at once.
