Lonely I sit in the green armchair
Thinking of times that no longer are here.
Greenlands of Rosses—Cows grazing wild
Minded at evening by a frightened child.
Sandy path winding down a hillside steep
Memories of yesteryear where whin bushes creep.
Oft did I sit on the second hill
When rain had stopped and winds were still
Up over Bowmore with his bike full of cans
Petie Joe Gillen,- now and then he stands.
Away in the distance Lissadell and Lower Rosses
And the lake of the Starlings
The swaying, haunting rushes.
The call of the curlew, the lowing of cattle
The stillness of evening,
Child’s fear—and the sting of nettle.
Sounds of waves breaking
On the second strand
The ghostly light off Raughley
And Rinn Point—the edge of sea and land.
Swans on the fourteenth river
Rise up in true formation
Of Drumcliffe Pilots
Preparing to call to salvation
Some dying soul searching
For his God and rest eternal.
A full moon adds to the wonder
The mist on the bog is eerie
The child on the hill is fearful
Of darkness and ghosts and fairies.
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