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Lough Ine

My eyes gaze upon the wonder of Lough Ine.
 
Natural harbour from gaining winds on the open Atlantic.
I think of living here in the woodlands on its western side,
to look back lifelong at the soaring hillsides to the north,
secluded in the memory of Anglo-Irish and
local lifestyles that endured centuries of lonely Hibernian winters,
basked in the peaceful summer bliss and
shaped the mystery of this natural retreat.
 
The chirping of birds is as plentiful as the colours of flowers are multitudinous.
Gorse and furze clamber over the rocky hilltop
boasting the island-ed and ruined tower house beyond.
This is a sacred and ancient place.
It has been a companion and honest friend for all of my life.
It will be here echoing these gazes across her waters, long after I am dead.
 
The Stags Rocks sit alone beyond the inlet at Barlogue,
and out across two headlands to Toe Head and Sandy Cove,
lashed even on such a fine day with spray and spume,
the Atlantic swells maintain the whitewash at their hooves and bellies,
galloping through the millennia.
How sombre she lies, this local coastline
in this summer air tinged with honeysuckle, buttercups and foxglove,
like a vibrant lover in repose, in warm sunlight.
 
The houses are nestled deep in the drumlin hollows
that rise and fall to the cliff edges
of the peninsular and jagged rocky shorelines
They are high-up off the gentle and steady pull and heave of the Atlantic behemoth,
rumbling and slowly grinding rocks and cliff faces away to nothing.
What matter ye of such little worry?
This time will pass into the night of oblivion,
while dawn breaks eternally here in Lough Ine.

(2013)

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