Great waves from the Atlantic sea,
Break hard along the Cliffs of Moher;
Sea birds swoop – dive through the spray,
To check the flotsam foam.
Off the Aran Islands,
Weathered fishermen haul in nets,
Then row their currach’s towards the shore,
Before the tempest sets.
The dry stone walls take comfort
From the ancient fort on Inishmore,
It faced a million storms, and stood;
Strong enough to withstand a million more.
Across the Burren wasteland,
Which Cromwell, cursed as Hell,
Maeve, the Connacht warrior Queen,
Stands once more ready to repel.
The skeletons of dolmens,
Stand above ground the ice age scored;
Past storms have taken up their bones,
This one will take some more.
© Fingleton (Août 2016) (Löst Viking)