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Creative Glencolmcille

Poetry

A Destiny of Dreams - Marion McGuire

Glen Head, Glencolmcille, County DonegalLook down on Glen, its mountain, sea and shore
And wonder at such beauty nature has allowed
Imagine how it was 5000 years and more
When man first tread this wild once fertile land

Echoes from the past are tomb and standing stone
Indelible reminders of a heritage unfound
Fact and story mixed in mythical melange
What history lies hid beneath the boggy ground

A destiny of dreams, a sanctuary for some
How many people through the years have called this valley home
All different in their ways yet inherent in each one
An independent spirit bred by downright isolation

These quiet hills sought and blessed by Colmcille
Bear witness to an epic story of survival
Of famine, plunder and deprivation
Dear freedom lost and won; the rebirth of a nation

Now weathered mountain moor and glen
Of wild birdsong and silver strand
Where people know each other’s name
What better resting place for the slabs of heaven

 

A Stone's throw from Slieve League.

A book of poems about the area of Slieve League and Glencolmcille. This books is available through www.handmadebooks.co.uk.

Contact: chris@handmadebooks.co.uk
Website: www.handmadebooks.co.uk

Maghera.

Do you ever find those times when suddenly, you go into space?
For no apparent reason?
Something moves you on.
Your thoughts take charge.
They lead you,
Over wind swept dunes,
Across white sandy beaches
Searching.
Searching for something that’s missing in your life,
But you don’t know what it is.

Maybe it’s in Maghera.

A Slieve League Day.

In the lateness of a long September,
We three decide on the Slieve League walk.
Low cloud and mist envelop our different shapes
As we foot it up from Bunglas,
Compassing for the East Top of Slieve League.
Once there, we sit to eat the Porter Cake,
Gazing in wonder at the breakers below.
Then, off again.
A last exchange of words, a joke or two
Before we part above One Man’s Pass.
They make for the Silver Strand and Gleanncholmcille.
I return for the car, not wishing to dance the Arete.

 

Poet: Chris White.
Website: www.handmadebooks.co.uk