Idle Thoughts While Walking in Sligo
There is little in lapping waves here where I walk,
And mountains tall loom over houses,
Neath a grey sky that fortells rain…
The sky, still crying for the death of Maeve
Killed from a slingshot cast from Cairn Hill
Under which the shadow my folk are from…
They – on the side on the road to Cooley:
I upon the side that faces Rathcroghan, I live
Where Ulster Men, a barrier they built…
Colmcille foretold they would draw blood
In this shallow barrier, wrought by the Black Pig
Known as the Dyke… yet, here i walk…
Waves lapping on the strand, as the grey sea,
Neath a darker sky that dries for the death of Maeve…
Murdered by her nephew, as in all good tragedies…
I think to myself… why did he for a weapon choose cheese?
