A Poem for GlendaloughJanuary 11, 2012 No Comments
Hill of the white oak grove, beloved of Nelson’s fleet.
Victory left the valley folk burning faggots.
Lugduff & Poulaneass
Black Hole Mountain Brook, father of the two lakes.
Powerful force, a torrent in streams clothing.
Speaks to us in splashes now of the ice that spawned it.
Treacherous Pointed rock. Master view of lakes and valley,
luring unwary travelers to a sloping edge too far
Ton Le Gaoithe, Back To the Wind. Always the wind,
from every direction. Stick your head up proud high
over Wicklow. Many an Ice Age since you were warm.
manys the bitter blast a Phog Do Thon.
The Pass of the Oak Wood, nobly named in ages past before
the rape of ships and mineshafts
Once a village, proud, hardwon, hardmade.That was then.
Now even Broc himself finds life hard on this bare and
magic mystic valley cradled in its mountain arms
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