top of page

Petite morts

when she of the Sidhe comes

to take my infantry to their death

I shall rise to that challenge

and make her a conquest

no languishing here in immortality

or under any Circe spell

nor surprises upon my command

her throat my blood will kiss

and tempest 'til the firmament shakes

and nirvana weeps with joy

those tears that make the seas the ponds the fjords

she will be mine and I hers in that majesty

and spent


wet and silent


"The Irish called them the Sidhe, or spirit-race, or the Feadh-Ree,... Their country is the Tir-na-oge, the land of perpetual youth...​The Sidhe race were once angels in heaven, but were cast out as a punishment for their pride. Some fell to earth, others were cast into the sea, while many were seized by demons and carried down to hell, whence they issue as evil spirits, to tempt men to destruction under various disguises; chiefly, however, as beautiful young maidens, endowed with the power of song and gifted with the most enchanting wiles. Under the influence of these beautiful sirens a man will commit any and every crime. Then when his soul is utterly black they carry him down to hell, where he remains for ever tortured by the demons to whom he sold himself."

Extract from:

Poem written 2012. First photo from a plane on way back from Portugal, possibly over the Indian Ocean, 2015; this photo, near Sneem on the Ring of Kerry, Ireland, 2011.

bottom of page