Walking along the rocky shore
with mist hanging low and damp.
Trying to find the way back
with only this old and rusty lamp.
Water the color of aging moss
swooping down, a mighty force.
Like those ancient marauders
those old men from the Norse.
Cold, dark, and wet, I press on
fearful of becoming swallowed.
Being pulled down to depths below
into the rocks that been hollowed.
The cry from the blasting winds
careening over the breaking sea.
Like a high tone mournful pitch
like a song from a banshee.
Never has there been a fear
or a loneliness that I avow.
As I crawl along the shore
of this old rock laden lough. |
