Beneath the Hawthorn’s Breath
The west wind walks the Burren stone,
where silence roots in lime,
and whispers through the hawthorn bones
of older, buried time.
A lone crow cuts the salted air
above the Cliffs of Moher,
its cry a thread the ancients wear
when mortal songs grow lower.
The heather bends in purple grief
on bogs that hold their dead,
each step a hush, each breath a leaf
of names the soil has said.
At dusk the Sídhe stir the ground,
their silver laughter near,
not seen, but felt in hollow sound
that chills the inward ear.
A selkie weeps along the shore,
half-heart in skin, half-sea,
her longing stitched to ocean’s roar
no land can set her free.
Old stories hum in Gaelic tone
through stones that will not yield,
for Ireland’s pulse is not her own—
it beats in myth and field.
3rd Place
Green to the Gills
Contest Judged: 4/4/2026 7:35:00 PM
Sponsored by: Daniel Henry Rodgers
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