Sheeps wool
Snarled on old blackthorn,
Brooks babbling
Through wind beaten bogs,
Whispering over boulders
Into dark deep pools,
Where speckled trout
Jump for flies,
On warm summer days.

Brilliant yellow gorse
In noontime sunshine,
Orchids in limestone cracks
Like veins in stone
In the blessed Burren.

The West of our land
Filled with bird's song,
Black, Collie dogs
At every gate
And donkeys' braes
Echoing through mountains.
And rain,
On a wind
that whispers in your ear,
This,
Is your land.