Glór an tSeanóra i Measc Scáileanna

Íomhá Angelee Deodhar

Glór an tSeanóra i Measc Scáileanna Tá an seanóir bailithe leis. ‘Leigheasfaidh teanga an tsionnaigh é!’ a d’fhógair sé. Cén rud? An triuch? Ní cuimhin liom anois. Teanga an tsionnaigh, an é sin a dúirt sé nó an planda atá ansin luibh shuaimhneasach éigin a fhásann sna coillte nó i riasc is nach bhfeictear, nó cois mara i measc an chabáiste aille? Scáileanna an tráthnóna ag dul i méid. Sionnach uirbeach gona shúile d’ómra lasta breathnaíonn orm is imíonn as radharc. Tost ar fud na bhfud.

Old Man’s Voice Among the Shadows The old man is gone. ‘The fox’s tongue will cure it!’ he declared. What? Whooping cough? I can’t remember now. The tongue of a fox, is that what he meant? Or is fox’s tongue a plant a soothing herb that grows in woods or in a marsh unseen, or by cliffs among samphire? Evening shadows grow. With eyes of flaming amber an urban fox looks in at me and vanishes. All is silence now.