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Aine MacAodha ~ Poetry and Lens

Aine MacAodha

My photo
Omagh, North Ireland, Ireland
Writer/poet,avid photographer with a great interest in Celtic Myths, Mysticism, crystal healing, orbs in photography, Chemtrails, the sky above and the beauty in the Irish landscape . I live in Omagh North of Ireland where the Sperrin Mountains are my inspiration in any season. I have three poetry books published titled 'Where the Three Rivers Meet' and 'Guth An Anam ~Voice of The Soul and my latest Published by Lapwing Press Belfast, 'Landscape of self'~ You can find my links at top of my blog.

Saturday, 17 October 2009






Old Societies


Rain takes on a silver sheen

thundering past the window,

encouraging the worm to rise.

Already the blackbird furrows

with his yellow beak, knowing

what lies beneath.

I think of pre-historic societies

leaving their stamp on the land in

stone circles, megalithic tombs,

standing stones and raths.

I imagine they were signposts

pointing the safest way ahead

to the nearest village; gathering

points, perhaps. Their own

creations dotted about

the landscape.

I feel a

certain kinship with them—those

who came before.

The worm: I wonder what its

aura holds? What has it come upon

whilst pushing clay,

slipping into worlds unseen?
I wish the rain to cease,

the blackbird to scarper

and the worm to live another day.

The Fiddler

The Fiddler




He cosies it under the chin,

or thereabout,

like a favourite scarf

from college days.

The music already forming in

his mind’s eye.

He’s played this air a thousand times,

yet each time it surges from

a different notion.

The horsehair bow

gallops a few times in practice

for the main event.

The listeners, young and old,

heed the waltz with arms

outstretched.

He rests on the waltz.

‘Give me your hand’

The dancers glide in perfect

sway to the fiddler’s tune.

Like a shaman he leads them

to another time when music

filled the night air under stars.

His ears are on alert, watching

for one wrong beat.

The dancers care not,

they are lost in the music of the fiddler.