Myths of the Gael
Who understands better than they
Those Poets that have shared her promised gift
Walked her lonesome shores, felt
her morning call
And blessed the hallowed grounds upon which they stood.
Who can comprehend this vibrant romance
that springs from poet's pen and trembling hand
Drawing her sweet image
with detailed craft
To show her magnificence and untold beauty.
Who has not walked her dales or crossed her mire
To not be taken whole and complete
into her whirlwind embrace
and constant grace
Of all that poetry cannot say.
Have her shine between the lines
Those well penned writes that fills the pages
From Burns, Stevenson, Dunbar,
Scott
That peered her majesty and dream't ever her dream.
I hear the old tales of Celtic myth and legends
That dance upon the faery minds of youth's face
Haunting our
world to her other side and peace
Till bardic impressions but crown her hood.
I hear the Fenian Yeats with liberated soul
Match word for word her stories old
That gathered the land like a
sacred veil
And dressed the world to the myths of the Gael.
We come, poor bewildered spirits
Into the pages of times great write
born but to dream that mother's dream
And
fill her countryside to the write.
And so to the night the poets write
these bards to the glen, in songs sing
and mortals to the heavens but cry
and pray
In the words that bless her eternal way.
"Hail the silent springs that flow,
the land sacred, filled to show
We poets bless that from which we grow
That
sacred Goddess of our hearth to know."
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
