I am Feannóg
of ancient days,
the little flayer of flesh.
I groom a feathered coat of grey,
and wear an ink-dark hood.
My badge is the red-steeped beak.
My eyes are funeral black.
They have seen the finest fall.
Their once bright shields
dulled in the bloodied mud.
I was beloved of Baḋḃ,
honoured guest at the battle-feast,
where I drew the garden's yield into my bones.
I remember the wailing laments
at the passing of the war-cry.
I saw valour lost to vice.
I see the celebration of semblance.
Beneath the shadow of my wings,
new hosts set the table,
but I hunger.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
17 January 2026
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