Hunt Cycle (Part II): At the Borders of Retribution

How blissful the thundering tempest
When in morn's decay at last it be;
Wakeful in wild anticipation
Have I been throughout the leaf-churned night,
At the borders of retribution.
With the passing of this torrent and
Cloud prolonged eve shall my hopeful chase
Flee anon from my lance-guiding eye,
For the night and storm conspired
To rob me of my dish so frigid;
I, the thirsty, but one step from drink.

E'en now to the north across the lough
The wind takes pleasure 'pon the waters,
Leaving the lakeside woodlands free from
Its serendipitous, guarding cloak,
And gifting the cold, storm-battered oaks
A warm and softly dawning surcease.
But no further rest shall my prey, in
Chilled and steepéd embrace endure, for
Soon the hunt too long drawn out ends in
Ecstatic bays of hounding fury.

From their fate shall all find lesson grave;
A commandment from my usurpéd
And hard-battled lordship denying
The living the voice to me oppose.
The druid-bard and warrior maid
Staked too much honor in their passed Chief,
Of whom my power was trusting born.
It is not my wrong that they shall die,
For by their mouths did they in 'honor'
Spout injust agent to my demise;
Might is ever right--and might is mine.

Stalking the camp in agitation,
The wolfhounds growl their impatient and
Blood-cravéd readiness, sensing with
The sun's ascent, this day's pounding pulse.
E'en my men, though wearied by the night,
With moonglow fervor stand eyes alight,
Features furrowéd with straining sight.
A crossing of the lough in the storm's
Gail would impossible be, thus enter
We into the woods, lances ready
And leashes straining, our Hunt to see.
Buried deep I mourn the loss of a
Beauty such as Céala's emerald
Orbs and lengthy Morrigu-black hair;
Her proud essence of the Irish lass.
Yet in her hawkish snap and taloned
Way, no sword could more sharply dive true
To the heart of my purpose and pain.
Therefore though reservéd I might be
Her death beside her lover is most
Apt (and honored) to protect my Day.

And Connor, ye bard of small reknown,
What trenchant thought restrained your silence
When nights with Céala you might have seen?
Was it Power through an epic ode,
Or the insolence of a proud boast?
No tale will follow you I assure,
Your memory crushed 'neath many hooves!
Whence have they flown, this coupléd thorn
Which insinuates my new-won land?!
Ah, a dead hut shuttered to advance....