Lately I’ve been thinking about Efnisien.
The trouble-maker, the rash prince, the complicated man.
I see him in the north of Wales.
It’s the dead of night in the eleventh century,
everyone exhausted from feasting.
He slashes the lips, tails, and eyelids of horse
after horse until all the King of Ireland’s
steeds are maimed for his revenge.
In the dawn, he leans back to rest
against the toadflax growing in the castle walls.
I find myself heading toward that kind
of trouble. Wanting to disrupt the feast,
overturn the order, throw a child
into the fire to avenge some insult.
And later be perfectly willing to break
my heart for any neccesary reason.
by Margaret Lloyd
