I too am of Ireland

From basalt slabs
to the Gap of the North,
from reedy lakes
to the gashed glens,

safe from light
the crushed seed sprouts.
Whispering bards
avert their gaze,

line their sights
on the links of time,
chain this coast
to distant fjords;

fingering gold
from the peat of lore,
they sing of the shaft
in the Newgrange tomb,

while a bleeding wrist
stains the lough shore,
winks deeper red
in some comet's gleam.

URL: www.mourne.net/thoughts.htm