Crocuses, snowdrops push up their merry heads
The cairn on the woodland path marks the unburied dead
In the air,  fleeting wisps of winter, white detrius, skeletal trees
A very occasional dew drop spends time hanging with the weeds.
This man he is an old man, his language Gaelic and rare,
Who in winter stares into the fire, in his isolated lair.

An bóthar ag taisteal na sióga….

Aye, the road that the fairies take, can lead us to despair
The sparkle on the sheen of a leaf, some say it’s not there~
The caw caw caw of the screaming crow’s flair for murder
Tears in the very air, the congregation in the broken chapel,
At prayer. Stones tell the stories of pillage and famine long ago:
This man is the servant of spirits we moderns do not know.
He listens very closely to the waters at the flood,
Second sight is in his blood.