The Pall Poem by Cúcídh Mac Cuagh

-In the midst and- The mist,
Came it from the west,
O’er heads of gods and goddesses,
Whom are now bless’d.
Oh Christ came the dull!

Unbeknownst to those at play,
The beauty in this green of land.
The yellow sand walk’d upon by those unknowing
The pall on them is growing,
Closer and even tighter still.
By means of Cnocs daftly nam’d; but owing,
To those glory days.

The white speck’d hills and hills of grey,
Greying with on-coming dread.
Faces once fill’d with light,
On which now shadows are cast;
One with delight.
To see the brat from which I’m free,
Call it fate or augury.
But now the spirit is lost.
I can no more.