~ by Patrick W. Kavanagh

She looked as dusty as the road I walked that autumn day.
“Come rest here by this shady bridge, young sir, and share a pipe.
My pouch is all but bare, but I have music to delight you in return.
I see that you have far to go, but yet your fair, fresh skin begins to burn.
So, rest a while and I shall play a mellow tune,
And we can journey on beneath the blessing of the harvest moon.”

There was a kindness in her eyes that warmed my heart, despite her rough attire,
And something in the way the autumn sun lit up her long red hair like liquid fire.
“A pouch I have, that’s much too full, and it would be a service that you do,
If you could help me lighten some, this heavy haversack that weighs me down.
I also have some wine and cheese and bread – a fine but simple feast for two,
And I would gladly spend an hour or two in pleasant company, and lay this burden down.”

We lit a fire beneath the shelter of the stony bridge and settled down to feast.
I wondered at the speed at which the simple supper disappeared, and feigned a lack of
appetite to leave to her the lion’s share.
The wineskin passed between us as we washed our banquet down with equal zest.
My overfilled tobacco pouch was quickly halved, and quietly we sat as plumes of pure
contentment filled the air.

And then, I lay my head upon my fast-depleted haversack to rest,
While from her robe a flute appeared, and she began to play a haunting air.
I cannot say for certain if I dreamed what happened as she played,
For birds and beasts assembled all around to hear her melancholy tune.
Suddenly a stallion, huge and white, was standing by me where I lay.
And huge white birds were flying overhead, their wings illuminated by the harvest moon.
“Come, young Blacksmith, for you have a special sword to make! But not until your days are almost at an end.
Brigid is my name, and my fine friend will take you where you need to go, and we shall
meet again, but not for some time soon.”