The old púca wears a beard
of damp watercress
The old púca wriggles on his belly
in the ditch alongside your road
The old púca doesn’t know
will he be good or do a trick
Decides, and whiffles your skirts
blows on your ankles
fern-tickles behind your knees
and suddenly you consider jumping
into the river gathering strength
like a thousand boulders rolling in,
tumbling out
The old púca conducts this thought
through the open doors of your head,
through the latchless gates of your blood:
the image of a wavery green nation,
a slippery one where you belong,
where your fins find a use
and the gills you’ve hidden
remember their old contentment
and breathe watery lungfuls
in a world that knows you whole.
The old púca counts to ten
and listens for a splash
Kate Chadbourneteaches Irish language, folklore and writing in that place in which one pahk-s the cah. Not only has she encountered the pooka in her journeys, but also the cailleach, or hag. Both of them are great at parties. She's wild about apples.