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As the dark distant hills appear to swim,
the song birds silent, now a muted choir,
shadows roosting on a telephone wire,
just there waiting for the night to begin.
In the twilight, evening mist rolls in,
and within it the smell of a peat fire,
a watery sunset behind the spire,
I can feel the goose bumps rise on my skin.
There with the pale moon rising to highlight,
the twigs and branches like ghostly fingers,
'tis easy to believe on such a night,
that someway the essence of, still lingers,
the giants, and gods of Irish folklore,
as I quietly walk this misty moor.
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