Francine Rochford: ‘Suibhne Geilt’Suibhne GeiltSuibhne, crouched in naked ferity,Magh Rath noisy at his backclanging unholy swords andcries of once-men and the horse’s scream,picks and peels at a scalp scaly from diggingwith fingernails gnawed in nightswrought with the alternatingjank and howl of the clapper-belland, like slaking a venous onion,skin curls paper-like or plasmic, set in moulds,each more bitter than the lastand alliinase, starts baseless tears. Runnels like a snail’s wet trailbead over wine-red jiggly lines:dementia’s pencil-marksor the tremulous crayon of a sobbing child. In the scoured crust of his abraded headtough rachides sprout and surge, thenlock with serried barbicels; whilerictal thorns ring his once occluded eyesuntil, each pinnule formed,he is airborne, set aloft by a spear’s curseto find and cling to the bitter ēoand join its lonely stridulation. Francine Rochford