On Top of Sliabh Bannion

I can see it now Through the dismal mist Pass the sorrowful heather. With it's impotent beige bloom Mossy fungal stone Strangled by ivy contagion. Up above, Jackdaws seeking justice Squabble and shreik. Each one with a crown of thorns. I sit, Beguiled by a simplistic beauty Under a pitiful April sky. Forgetting all the constructions of man. Up here, The foundations of convictions Can start to shake. I could easily slip Into the rhythms of ancient silent prayers And sing softly those tragic hymns, To doleful face cattle Chewing obediently on everlasting cud.