The Loathly Damsel



Astride a fea-bitten mule she sits
the black-shawled queen
aloof, independent
bundled warm always arriving
staring into the distance at the world curving
the night-hag is passing among the wildwood trees
by village and marsh in all weathers at any time -
it's lifelong this conversation with the seasons.

Locals respect her the slow-moving one
grant her free-way unhindered
the loathly damsel's power
is speech of the babbling kind
dowsing the depth of her outlaw soul
she trawls mysterious oceans
feeling intangible words into being
conjuring from an invisible space.

She carries a lodestone in a leather pouch
with a pinch of hyssop, a blade of grass
and the ash from burned frankincense
tells all who'll listen to never look
at the moon through glass
some sneer, call her 'mad ma'
fearful of the insight she carries
from a very long line - beginning time
she calls simply the 'old tongue'.

She swears blood-oaths to an obedient sky
jabs her Fools' Finger in the air
at men of aristocracy
who consult her - the oracle
who speaks to them in metaphor
in double-tongued innuendo
from a slack and toothless mouth
never clear of spittle, dismissive
of the foul stench wafting
from the unwashed folds
of her oily bundled body.

A covenless outsider
scouring the black-heath wastes
combing back-ways willow-leaf lanes'
lone sihouette with her familiar crow
sleight-of-hand , shifting form
she forewarns the frail and drifting
slipshod strays arriving lost
at roads that fork and cross.

She was conceived
as the rapacious moon grew hungry in Taurus
when Moon screwed that smart aleck Mercury -
laid him flat on his flippant back.

And she, born so strange
such an ill-conceived aftermath
arriving unrehearsed for her part
in the dark comedy she still plays
the loathly lady of fish-wifely odour
vulgar lip, bulging eye
hair like melted candle grease
her performance improvised
fame of a kind on a worldly stage
where power is played in omens and visions
the shape of things, of dreams and future schemes
of tainted burning flesh choking fearful hamlets
smothering the witching wisdom
it's ancient faerie gift
the insight she carries from a very long line
beginning time - she calls simply
the 'old tongue'.



Pamela Sidney 1999

The Amber Seekers


From far most east we seek
rare amber of the sun
sacred amber, most precious
hauled by trade-route pilgrims
through spired an wailing cities
hawked in kif-dens by vagabonds
where dreamers lie in the smoke of oblivion

bartered in golden silk bazaars
amber necklets to protect our children
amulets of amber we carry home
to lie in barrow by bard and druid
freshly buried for their Otherworld


we left behind only fragments
wroughted silver brooches
bronze shields buried
below the earth
whimsical scraps of poetry
swords of chieftains fallen
to raw and bloody battle
and in the deathly pall
that lingers after war
rows of those
of our enemy's heads
mounted on poles in sacrifice

and great Bran's head never at rest
respectfully moved from place to place
'til final burial on the White Hill
his last insistent request

you know our rites of fertility
surrender to the greening spring
our kinship with fire
as winter season closes in
and the great flood that drove us
far from home, reluctant wayfarers
moving on, always to a different place
longing for a land unseen, unknown
but in our hearts, our Land
of Everlasting Youth
place to lay our swords in peace
and so we follow a restless yearning
forever seeking new territory
new home, always a new place.



Pamela Sidney 1998

Random Act


The wind came down
curled itself around
impervious standing stones
swept through wet marshy fields
where strange women dwell
keepers of the power of ancient spell

the wind rose in brief anticipation
where hosts of black birds nest
in a thorny briar to sing, where
startled owls cower full-eyed
portending the end to come

and through the briar, wind glimpsed
the bleached bones of fallen war-lords
fine ribbons of many colours , rusted helmets
lying desolate, visors closed in ritual respect

the curling wind pressed on causing damp to flee
leaving mossy pads of earth exposed to lie
like stepping-stones across the ravaged plain

quickly the sky blackened to crow
with beating breast and rasping craw
filled the crooks of willow's roots
brushed by stone altars carved
by vanished druids long ago

to rest inside the darkened well
where women come to prophesy
to speak in vision for the tribe

where a child now bends
to fetch her water
in a creaky wooden pail

the crows attack, sharp beaks force
drawing blood from the frail pale one
'til all is ripped to slivers of flesh
rent to strips fragmenting
lying like leather drying in the sun

flat black wings rise in flight
leaving behind just strands
of burnished golden hair
lying wasted without meaning
on the blood-soaked clods of earth

on a field that once held sacred power
malevolence dwelt that day
testament to the prescience of air -
the prophesying birds of Bran

did goodness flee when magic ceased
with the power of three times three ?
when druids retreated to their Otherworld ?
when the well became just a quench for thirst ?
when visions vanished with the ancestors's songs ?

so the birds returned to fill the void
chaos reigned, exacting a curious retribution

with rituals gone, memory confused
boundaries unclear, no meaning left
their actions on that dreadful day
had no measure of value
in the foresaken land.



Pamela Sidney 1998