Ireland in Her Eyes


There is a lass
Who carries her homeland in her eyes
The land of the Emerald Isle
A gift passed through centuries

If you look closely
Into the depths
Of swirling greens and golds
You may be lured
into reflections of the past

And there she is
Or is it her?
About the Samhain fire

Cnoc na Teamhrach
The Hill of Tara
It is in this place of kings
That her soul is linked
You can see it in her eyes

You can see the joy of her people
At the harvest of their labor
You can almost smell her hair
And feel the softness of her hand
As you draw her away
To celebrate alone

The eyes of her land
Gleaming at your touch
The wind of emerald cliffs
Is her breath on your face
The ringing of a thousand sacred chants
Is her sighing in your ear
Draw her to your body
And feel the earth rise up to meet you.

-LM Jones


L’ianə and The Dragon Path (I)


L’ianə stands quietly in the shade of an old forest sentinel
Music winds through the dark wood
She is the one it seeks
Finding her
It’s tendrils enfold her in a golden harmony
And tug her toward destiny

Like a siren song
Dragon-folk are calling her…
So she follows Chygon Rukesyaer
Down the dragon path

He has gone a little ahead of her
She must hurry to catch up
She’s stopped a moment to take it all in
Her world, once so small
Had been in the care and service of others
Now her world is fathomless and unknown

Like a siren song
Dragon-folk are calling her…
So she follows Chygon Rukesyaer
Down the dragon path

All is new again, like a babe
Her bewildered gaze falls on path and tree
Even the wind and sky are strangers
Panic begins to rise
Removing her hand from the tree
She takes a deep breath and straightens

Like a siren song
Dragon-folk are calling her…
So she follows Chygon Rukesyaer
Down the dragon path

Before she can move forward
She stares in shock at her hands
As they begin to glow
He had not been mistaken then
When he’d told her of the magic she possesses
Her laughter rises to mingle with the song

-LM Jones



Niamah stands very still at the edge of the turbulent gray water. Just the tips of her bare toes are submerged. She can feel the chill, like icy tendrils, crawling up her legs and spreading throughout her body. The cold wraps her like a vice as a gust of wind irritably pulls her golden hair from its braid.  A fine mist settles on her cheeks like a tender kiss and there’s a sort of comfort in its caress. The thin bed clothes are no protection from the demanding elements, but rather than fight them she willingly, almost happily, gives herself over to them.

As she observes the river she begins to notice little details under its surface. The stones are an impossibly smooth ivory. She resists the urge to bend and scoop one into her palm. Her eyes are drawn to a black moss growing around the stones. It glistens like sultry black hair. As if in a trance, Niamah Raises her arms and massive white wings to the sky as she begins to wade into the water. All she can hear is its furious roar, yet she remains unafraid.

Suddenly, the river takes her into its powerful grip. She spins and twirls, her release of control is a joy within itself. As she begins to laugh, water fills her mouth and lungs, but the water is life to her. She begins to hear a melody under the rush of the current. It’s the sweetest lullaby she has ever heard and yet there is an edge of sorrow entwined with the joy. The cold becomes a welcoming warmth as she releases the last of her resistance. It is then that she hears her name, “Niamah, my daughter, come to me.”

Heart pounding, Niamah springs from her pillow. It was the dream again. This dream has come to her, occasionally, for as long as she can remember. Closing her eyes she focuses on slowing her breathing. The dream itself does not frighten her, it’s the overwhelming feeling of loss that she’s left with, as if she’s missing something she’s never known. The river always calls her “daughter.” The voice is beautiful, soft and full of love. Niamah can’t help but imagine that it is indeed her mother calling to her. This is impossible of course, her mother died giving birth to her.

Tears spring to her eyes for the mother she never knew. All of a sudden, there’s a tap at the door and her Nan enters without invitation. Nan knows exactly what ails her girl and without a word she pulls her little darling into her arms. Humming, She caresses her long hair. With her head on her ample bosom, Niamah immediately relaxes. She lets the familiar scent, vanilla and sage, comfort her as she is lulled back to sleep. The dream does not return this night.
-LM Jones

Author’s note: this excerpt is directly related to the poem (Diantha of the River)
Niamah is Diantha ‘ s daughter.
Book one of “The Watchers” is about Diantha.
Book two will be about her daughter Niamah.

Diantha of the River


She steps from the dark tree line
Into the twilight
Dark glossy hair flows down her back
Curling at her elbows and hips

Her skin is milk white
Her body is long and lithe
Eyes that are a piercing stormy blue
Set her apart from her people

Tears stream from those violent eyes
And fall to mingle with her blood on the frozen ground
She ignores the blood as it pours down her back and thighs
Slowly, she glides toward the river
in a trance of her own creation

Her breath is a fog
As a lilting song floats from her blue lips
A song to call to her lover lost
A hopeless song,
She knows he will never hear

At the edge of the swollen, rushing river
She raises her arms and her face to the sky
All the animals of the forest remain silent and watching
They bear sole witness

Her song swells to an impossible sound
Even the beasts in a nearby pasture
Bow their heads in homage
To the end of a love
That would only perplex common hearts

But it is a beginning as well
She wades into the water
The sharp rocks slicing her feet
Her blood is a cloud of red
Around her as she sinks

The water takes her
Into a cold embrace
Caressing her like a lover
Its icy fingers
A fire on her skin

As she and the water become one
It flows through her mouth and nose
Spreading within her body and into her veins
Consuming her

Soon the townsfolk begin to notice a change in the river
The water is grayish blue like a violent storm
And never is it still, always rushing
Toward some unknown destination

A new plant grows at the bottom of the river
Long and glossy like the blackest hair
And a mist lingers above the water
Pale and seductive like the curve of a white hip

All the stones in and around the river
Are pure white and smooth
Like bones that have been polished
By brutal waves and grinding rocks

And if you stand by the water and listen to its roar
You may begin to hear a call
To twist and turn in the current
To become one with the river

A haunting song
Of love, loss, and pain
An entrancing song
That bids you to join it

The townsfolk have a warning for those who are new
Don’t stand by that river too long
Or listen to the song it sings
You’ll be lost to her forever,
Churning in her current’s caress,
A toy in her icy fingers
Never relinquished to rest.

-painting by