The Corrie Breàchain

Ulva whines and keens
Her canid heather forms
And black fern roots
Call to her mistress
Over the horizon.
For she is one of the
Feal grey hounds
Of the Corrie Breàchain,
Speckle-sea plaid cauldron
Of the winter queen
Cailleach Bheur
Maelstrom mother,
Sea mistress,
Her storm kelpies whipped
To a frothing lather
Her name feared, half-whispered,
Her sea-wolves ready
To bite unsuspecting seafarers –
A querulous, vainglorious bunch –
Mightily in the ass.
She is Beira, ruler of tides and storms,
Veiled one,
Tempest hag,
Siren spring seducer.
At Ulva’s call she yawns, her maw
The cavication that sets the Corrie
Into motion.
Hers is the vortex
And we have erred too close.
Our ship tilts and yaws
Our is a spiralling
Downward path and
We are in the maelstrom now.
Perhaps
With a supreme effort
We can strain our sinews
Focus all the will we have
To break free, but
Perhaps
Is a pretty weak force
In the greater scheme of things.