The old tale wandered cross the Fearnóg moss green
The faint songs of the ancient’s druids sing
Woven spells guard the faeries rings
Brian Boruma mac Cennetig might hold the throne
On scarred brow bore the crown of High King

Tuatha Dé Danann shimmering robed in white bogbean
Gloved in moss sewn fine with buttercups
Coltsfoot garlands round their heads
Whitlow grass soft neath their feet
Swirling opaque droplets of drifting fog

Children shivered in anticipation round smoking peat fires
Awaiting long told stories of battle
Against the fierce black-haired Fir bolg

Rose the legend Hy-Brasil from the waves
Come the count of seven years
In the dreamland of the Irish
Tír na nÓg

This was written for my Family
All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby March 22, 2019.
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