The morning light gave birth to rambling stone rows
Grown out of the drumlins laden with auburn stray sod.
Pasture only meant for grazing eye and timid ewes,
Venturing higher to the summits lost in fog.
The boreens tangle in themselves dividing up the land,
Flowing to testaments standing to the test of time.
On a clearer day, is a canvas untouched by hand,
While the Atlantic roars over the seabirds whine.
A Celtic lilt of the native tongue colours the air of the room
And a swell of the bow slips in between tattle.
A haven of rumination awry in its loom.
A doldrum of the mind for no gale to battle.