Hill of Tara

On the green hill of Tara
Mist and light intertwined into a web
of gossamer enjoining every blade of grass
into this shimmering sheet of diamonds.

Green beyond green, intoxicatingly airy
sanctuary of sovereigns and home of honeyed bees
dripping sweet nectar over the centuries of
flying the unseen ones home to the hive

A hill of ancient stories, across the western sea
and the faery tales still told at many a fireside
flames leaping at the magic invoked
echo the green drums of the old voices

Nuada of the Silver Hand of the superlatively
mystical and most brilliant ancient High Kings
calling from beyond the ages of the Angels and later
Niall with the bones of the Nine hostages

In the mound on a holy hill where still stand
stones that cry out when the true one enters
and the hill itself opens and the ancestors ride free
on wild Irish horses, saddled by Medhbh

Maybe the bones of all Erin lie here
In this sacred seat of an islands soul
while above the fairlaced daisies and shamrock open
innocent to the warmth of the day

and the picnickers plaid rug and sandwiches.