THE BATTLE OF VENTRY 

I dreamt of Ventry, red again

with ichor of a foreign horde

that fled before the serried men-

the captains and de Danann lords

***

For sore in pride, the worldly king-

and wounded god across the sea,

with war, he dared to ride and bring

on Eire’s sod, his doomery

***

Great pretending, gross in girth

descending with his galleys laid

to fear inspire, the host of earth

and rallied merely hirelings paid

***

Garbed for fighting,  Fionn with sword

Lugh his glaive, and Ogma mace

the lightning barbed, and grave he scored

the vain invader’s bloated face

***

“Away, and tend the running gouts

and gashes given in the fray”

The cunning Ogma, hale he shouts

with lashes, sends them in dismay

***

Ageless are these other kind

of brothers, sort of sacred deed

and though unsevered in the mind,

from mortal waking, ever free