She’d have naught of silvery turnings like fish,
The Celtic knot of wedded, bedded love.
She stole away to the Arans, met a man
Not man but fearsome messenger of wish
And promises; the angel gave a shove
That slung her sideways, scotched all prior plan
And launched her on a quest for nine white deer
In a glade with streams that brimmed with watercress . . .
And there made church and convent, hives and mead,
This blessed, this raucous lady chanticleer
Announcing sun to villagers, this abbess
Who routed cattle thieves with honeybees
And cured black-hearted plague—a flight of laud
To she who chased the honeyed gold of God.
—Marly Youmans
