The Leprechaun

Prose Poetry by Liúsaidh

Standing stones. Blood on the rocks. Thrice I call you, Mortal Man.

Thou hast caught my shoes, so I cannot run. In thy hands, my lantern of dark-light. I cannot lie.

Mortal Man, who seeks his wishes granted. Release me. In truth it would be better for thee to do so.

Thou hast sorrow. I can tell. The sweet taste of whiskey and heartbreak sings through thy blood. Thy lover has abandoned you, and now thou hast stumbled widdershins round the auld kirk.

Thrice counter to the turning of the sun.

Mine.

Come dance with me, m’lad, for I shall grant thee thy heart’s desire, and bind my hair about thy neck, thy wrists, and draw thee Underhill for one last wild burl at a faerie ceilidh.

Worry not, at the ricket o’ banes in the alcove, the musician’s finger bones still grasped round an ancient fiddle. He died happy. They always do.

So it shall be for thee.

Drink this wine. Forget thy fears.

Here’s my clarsach, her they call the truth-teller. I’ll strike her strings, and sing thee a lament for a wasted life. I shall cant thy sorrows away.

Come to the gaming tables. A wee game of draughts before I draw thee to the glade. Wager the number of thy remaining hours, the blood of thy firstborn. We are ancient. We can wait for the day we’ll redeem the marker on thy folly.

I am waiting for thee, here in the shadows. A glade of blood oaks, the grove where I’ll take thee.

Mortal, mortal, mortal, haste thee to me, and I’ll show thee a sweet way to die.

Mortal, mortal, mortal, come to me, thy heart and soul be mine in the dark.

See? Is is not better to stumble into my lair?

Let me sing to thee, a song of sharp teeth and glinting firelight.

Let me kneel before thee, Mortal Man, and drink deep of thy sorrows. Caught in my cant, so beautiful under the black light of the moon.

That’s it. Thy hands in my hair. Slake thy grief and desire for her upon these lips.

They call us leprechauns. They call us creatures of luck.

We are.

We are the luck of the Irish. Of Standing Stones. Blood on the rocks. The luck of the Celts.

Wind thy hands about my wild hair, kiss these bloodied lips. Slip thy body into mine. Die in my arms.

Come to me, come to me, come to me.

Celtic wishes always come true, Mortal Man.

I’m waiting, Mortal, for thee.

Once I call thee.

Twice I bind thee.

Thrice, it is done.

 

Glossary:

Ricket o Banes — rattling skeleton.

Clarsach — celtic harp. 


Widdershins —  anti-clockwise


Kirk — church


Ceilidh —   gathering, usually a Scottish or Irish party with dancing


Cant —  lit. ‘Hook’, an  incantation or enchantment. 


Burl — Spin


Unseelie — unholy, dark, evil

Underhill —faerieland, most often the faerie court. Don’t eat the food.

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Liúsaidh is a Scottish poet writing from a drug-ridden council estate. The words are always strange. She has been published in several literary journals online and in print, most recently in Poets & War, Unlost Journal, and Thank You For Swallowing: Women’s Protest Poetry.