Hunt Cycle (Part III): We Die Sans Guilt, Soul in Honor

The portal to death creaks its grim close
As the last of the embers loses light.
This once mirthful hut, agéd even
In my playful youth, has now served me
Well again as I leave it behind,
Following the curve of Lough Corrib's
Softly silvered surface, absorbing
Unto its calming waters the last
Sprinkléd droplets of the northswept storm.
Oh playhouse of youth, goodbye forever.

Above, darkening ripples of grey
Flow into the brown-orange tufts of
Dawn-mirroring clouds scattering for
The first hints of light blue from the east.
Across the Lough’s greyéd features sways
A wall of green to a faltering,
Zephyrous conductor's timid stroke.
Behind the warding presence of those
Oaks rise rugged, storm-shadowed mountains
Taunting with hopes of continued
Life in the lands of another clan.

As the hawk screeches its lethal dive,
From the woods come the perturbéd howls
Of man and beast alike as in quest
They are thwarted from the final strike
Which will end this honor-wrought madness.
Born and bred to battle, unlike most
My sex, there is naught but disgust for
Our most ignoble, scampering flight.
Yet hope persists to fight another
Day if but around the Lough we make.

Oh Connor, Love, as the hounds attach
To newer scents, and warriors spur
Madly on their frothing mounts, I know
Our fate is one with the stag and boar,
With which so often we too had sport.
'Tis good that our last night was so spent
In rapturous warmth that for a span
Of thunder, the oblivion of
Morn was lost to sight and but the dreams
Of what could be held our fruitless love;
No babe will I bear--only steel.
One more span of heaven's golden flight
Is all required for continued
Life in the many hued verdure of
My late mother's distant clan, lying
But opposite our bramble-halted
And savagely hounded position.
Above the flanking trees now rise the
Charred smoky hauntings of my cottage,
Betrayéd by my passing presence
To the spoiléd vengeance of my Foe.

As hooves beat clear o'er my pounding heart,
The hounds' cracking jaws crush hard upon
What little breath exists between us,
And gleeful riders shout "Here" and "There".
No true change in my cogitations
Of my last few days is clearly seen;
Love for my bard is undiminished.
Connor slays a hound but falls to two,
And jeering shouts ride me swiftly down.
Hate for my Foe is unavengéd,
Yet We die sans guilt, soul in honor.