Grá mo Chroí poem of the day.
The yew tree bows beneath the weight of tears,
Though the heart beneath the cairn is still.
The tide flows and ebbs upon the strand,
But dry are his eyes, empty his hands.
On a far hill without a fort
An apple tree reaches out its laden boughs,
Fruit red as her lips, white as her skin.
Leaves flutter in the breeze,
Though her hair, sun gold, is tight bound in death.
Bright the eyes of the blackbird
That flies from tree to tree,
And sweet his song,
Sweet as the love that lingers still
In the bright summer air.
Viv Drewa - The Owl Lady 