St. Patrick's Day Poem: Bean Sídhe (part 3)

S P Clark has written Bean Sídhe to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. It is a poetic retelling of ancient Irish folklore. A haunting and intriguing tale. Today you can read the third and final part, but it is recommended that you read the other two parts first:

Part 1: click here

Part 2: click here

Bean Sídhe

S P Clark

Rules, he thought, should be his guide;

don’t tempt fate, those thoughts put aside.

Ciarán never followed rules,

he liked to work with his own tools;

spurned being told what to do,

lives on the edge and turns the screw.

Rules are for the living souls.

Bean Sídhe’s as dead as Dead Sea Scrolls.

Her keening swarmed all about.

The ground beneath him urged get out.

Wailing was now everywhere,

it scorched the sky without a care.

Pressed her cry against his skin,

pressed upon him, both kith and kin.

He now lingered far too long;

Ciarán’s intrigue grew much too strong.

Dragging the comb through her hair,

endless time starts to overbear.

Thought of her as compelling.

Centuries she’s been foretelling

of the agony to come.

Aside from keening she’s struck dumb

by the burdens hard to keep;

each vision makes her wail and weep.

In this brooding state she drops

the comb, just as her keening stops..

Silver glinted at the moon;

the comb sailed down like a balloon,

No weight to this silver comb.

It shimmered in this dark-lit gloam.

Hush came in and shocked his throat.

Bean Sídhe lurched, couldn’t stay afloat.

Foul hush filled the air with dread;

the keening stopped, an uncut thread.

Bean Sídhe sat hunched, head bowed down,

She waited for this boy from town

to raise the comb from the ground.

Ciarán stock-still, his thoughts confound

him. This ends only badly.

A scary thought takes hold madly.

If, he thought, the comb just fell,

a kind gesture to raise it well.

His foot moved before he knew,

no decision of what to do.

Stream-cold mist curled ‘round his legs.

The ground transformed to sponge-like dregs.

Step.  Step. Tentative shuffles,

even silence is now muffled.

Pulse quickened, beats indented.

Time forgets the thoughts tormented.

Ciarán crouched before the comb,

otherworldly and naught like chrome.

The shine seemed to live inside

the comb. Shining out; shyly shied.

Its teeth were fine, far too fine;

teeth so jagged they intertwine.

Bean Sídhe still slumped, hunched over.

Ciarán thought that she’d takeover

his mind.  He’d lost his senses;

as though he’d cut his defences.

He calmly stretched out his hand;

then Ciarán felt his heart expand

as he touched the silver.  Cold

darted through him from times of old.

Cold caressed his fingertips

and chilled his bones and blued his lips.

Little pause.  Nothing occurred

until Bean Sídhe sluggishly stirred.

Her head rose unhurriedly.

Still no sound, she moved noiselessly

‘til her eyes, through parted hair,

fixed him firmly with gimlet stare.

He tried fast to turn his head

but his eyes drew to hers instead.

Her face pale, porcelain pale;

an expression that told a tale

of grief.  Not new; old as time

itself.  Keens her eternal shrine.

She is cursed and can foretell

of those yet to die, how they fell.

Eyes transfixed to Bean Sídhe’s gaze,

saw a vision that broke his daze.

In her icy and mournful eyes

he saw a woman near demise;

wrapped in blankets like a shroud.

He knew her face and he was cowed;

the woman he did recognise

“It can’t be real”, he cries, he cries.

He’s touched the comb and he spake!

He should have stopped for Mother’s sake,

who is gently wrapped for death,

soon to draw out her final breath.

The comb now refused to drop;

his fingers clasped to make it stop.

The Bean Sídhe began to speak,

her voice was soft but wasn’t weak.

She spoke words that felt like truth;

no accusations, just plain proof .

“You may not be forgiven,

you have taken what’s not given.”

Ciarán shook his head and lied,

“I didn’t…I couldn’t…”, he tried

but he faltered with this fib.

He wasn’t smooth, he wasn’t glib.

“You came here to hear my song.

The thread now woven tight and strong

is woven for whom you see.

I have revealed their destiny.

This is why my song is pain;

years I have grieved and grieved again.

Once the thread is woven tight,

their fate is sealed before daylight.

I do not seek to cause harm.

A curse I’ve had since babe in arms.

To prophesise such upset

that comes true when my eyes are met,

or when a person lingers,

or grasps my comb in his fingers.

My eyes are red from the tears

of mourning through these endless years.”

The Bean Sídhe raised up her hand

and pointed far across the land.

She pointed beyond, and cast

her eyes as though upon the past.

“Go”, she said, “do not return.

When will calmness replace this burn

that dwells deep inside my heart?

Some final words before we part.

You’ve seen things that will not change,

it’s hard to hear, you’ll think it strange,

it does no good to complain.

Out of my sight, do not remain”

Ciarán felt it in his toes;

beneath her voice the keening rose.

The hollow dark starts to pulse.

His whole body starts to convulse.

The hawthorn began to shake;

the hollow ground began to quake

as the vision reappeared,

memories of the path he steered.

He trembling turned, ran away

to reach home before break of day,

to hold mother to him so tight,

before she fails in Heaven’s light.

Far behind him the Aos Sí,

who vain beheld this mystery,

joined in with the keening cry

as he ran home, his eyes not dry.

The wind rushed hard at his face,

charging home at a violent pace.

Filled with hope that he could save

his mother from an early grave.

Light of dawn upon the floor

before Ciarán had reached the door.

The house already was awake,

when he walked in his heart would break.

The door creaked to open wide

Solitary, his sister cried.

Then the comb fell from his grasp

It did not shine. His sister gasped.

Looked at him like he’s a thief,

his sister wept in disbelief,

“You’ve brought pain upon us all,

you’ve taken life from our four walls.

She’s in her bed with closed eyes.

I had to hear her drowning sighs

as she drew her final breath.

You have brought shame to me, and death.”

Ciarán walked slow to the room;

candles blown out and filled with gloom,

she was there but she was gone,

like the comb she no longer shone.

Ciarán pulled open the drapes

and looked upon the mounds, and shapes

of things yet unknown to him.

Heard one more note, that haunting hymn.

The Bean Sídhe mourned once again.

Her voice was deepened with true pain.

Eternity just plays on,

even when we are dead and gone

from Earth to another place,

there’ll always be this eerie space.

Dear reader, now you can see

The fright that comes from the Bean Sídhe.

© S P Clark