The owl
An tUlchabán
You'd never guess it was a bird of prey,
flying languidly,
ghost-like in the dusk
above the grass verge.
Then, like a flash, he struck.
When we fixed the headlights on him
he turned his head, disdainfully
fixing those big, unflinching
wide-open eyes upon us -
contemptuous of our audacity.
Then he resumed his work with beak and claw
before rising, just when it suited him:
a destroyer clutching his prey.		 Ní cheapfá gurbh éan creiche é
'gus an eitilt spadánta sin faoi,
é go taibhsiúil sa chlapsholas
os cionn an mhóinín bháin.
Ansin, de thoirt, chrom sé ar an bhfiach.
Nuair a dhíríomar soilse an chairr air
chas sé a cheann go sotalach,
ag díriú orainn, gan loiceadh,
na súla móra ar leathadh -
ag casadh ár ndánachta linn.
Is siúd arís é i mbun ghnó goib is crúibe
roimh éirí ar a chaoithiúlacht:
An tseilg i gcrúcaí an stiallaire.

 

Another reading Léamh eile

 

Seachrán Ruairí (Coiscéim 1986); Shaun Traynor (ed) The Poolbeg Book of Irish Poetry for Children (Poolbeg 1997)