Conriocht [Werewolf]

Chonac smólach marbh sa choill

é seargtha ar an screablach.

Bhíos ag déanamh trua de

nuair a tháinig madraí de rúid

is thugadar ruathar fúm

ag snapadh, ag glamadh

agus drant orthu.

Uaimse do tháinig liúbhéic,

gach bagairt is buille coise:

Bhí ina bhúirchath eadrainn.

Chorraigh na ba sna goirt

is chuireadar leis an gcór allta.

Theith lucha is dallóga fraoigh

isteach faoin doire donn,

sheas madra rua ar shiolpa,

a cholainn iomlán righin.

Chuimhníos ar mo choisíocht;

bhí ceithre chrúb fúm.

I saw a thrush-corpse shriveling

on the woodland’s scrabbly floor.

I was busy pitying it

when there came a harrying pack

of strays that set about me;

they bayed and snapped,

growling bare-toothed.

From my throat such roaring;

my every curse and foot-swing

made a bellow-war between us.

Fields of agitated cattle

augmented that wild choir.

Mice and shrewmice shrunk back

into the oakleaf brown interior

as a fox reared upward on a stony ridge,

its stance utterly rigid.

I remembered to run,

felt the four paws under me.