you could hear
his heart break
for a thousand miles
as he stood upon
the rood stones

below his feet
Glenasmole
the valley of the thrushes
shone radiant
in the crisp spring air

his feet were bound
with leather and fustian
his left arm
an amulet wore
of brass gold
from those Wicklow Hills

his people were dying

not from hunger
from the land
but from the spirit
that had held them true
for Gael and slaughter

word of mouth
was killing them

so as he stood
on bog oak grey
and slaked his thirst
in burren brook
he roared
the lore
of
rising

04/12/2008