Riding The Wild Sea Horses Of Strandhill by Mort Murphy

(Knocknarea (Hill Of The Kings) is reputed to be the burial place of Queen Maeve, seated upon her horse. Surfers, including big wave riders, come from all over the world to the North-West coast of Ireland)

Storming sea horses race high

Up, up, pounding thunder into the sky

Roaring, snorting, strong is their sea foam

Masters of all, wherever they roam

Battering fearlessly at granite rocks night or day

Jumping o’er walled cliffs that stand in their way

No corral, no riders, fierce and free they be

No one tames these wild horses of the sea

One puny punter, with wet suit, surfboard

Is in Strandhill, to ride these horses he adored

But they with majestic, dismissive disdain

Toss the errant knave, he who lacks wisdom arcane

For no secret knowledge does he possess

Seeks not to learn how he they might bless

Foolishly wants only to tame using duress

And so cannot know of their loving caress

But the ancient night wind of the hill

Looks down upon his weary face, bleak with failure’s chill

Whispers low: ‘Get up to Knocknarea before the dawn

Go now, for this night’s dark veil is soon to be withdrawn

And there ask the ghostly guard of Queen Maeve’s grave

The language you are to speak to the sea horse waves

Don’t forget you agree to pay his eerie price

If you are to know that custodian’s archaic advice’

Rising up as if in a dream

His footsteps guided by a moonlight beam

Hastily he climbs o’er rock, through furze

Hair matted; clothes stickled with thistle burrs

All at once he is at the cairn

But his heart fails him, ahide in the fern

When lo comes a warrior voice from along side

‘Human, you tread upon sacred ground; you cannot hide

Speak if you will of your visit here

Why are you come to be so near

The resting place of Queen Maeve upon her horse

Silence will bring you but death in this fern and gorse’

‘I come only with hope in my heart

That you advise me and then I depart

For my heart so yearns to fulfil

Its desire to ride the wild sea horses of Strandhill’

‘Mortal man, those words from you I hide

Unless first you visit with their bride

Bring to Queen Maeve, here in her tomb

A gift fit for their queen, one of flowering broom’

Quaking, shaking he gathers as bid

Returns to the guardian, who remains hid

Calls out: ‘Sir, I know not the way

Take me to your queen before dawns the day’

Suddenly of that barrow he is within

There she greets him with a fleshless grin

Extends a bony hand for him to kiss

And receives his gift of flowers with ghostly bliss

Gracefully he bids her warm adieu

Then wondering what he is to do

When all at once to outside he returns

But there his despair roils and churns

For looking to the east, he sees that dawn unfurls

Then he hears that voice; and his distress uncurls

‘Speak you to the sea horse waves and say

That you met with Queen Maeve before dawn of day

You kissed her shrivelled hand in her royal tomb

And brought her the noble gift of flowering broom’

Willingly will you ride wild sea horses in full flight

Surfing on the lip of their foaming, roaring might’