Swallows dance on the water, of the ancient ground,
Where Irish kings were born, then proudly crowned.
An evening caressed, by mother's careful hand,
A sky so still, that it haunts the sacred land.
Just a helpless breeze, caught on the humming air,
Ripples these dark waters, in the sun's longing glare.
A burning wood comes toward me, with natures calling birds,
From over the water's edge, where reality's realms are mirrored.
The landscape holds the beauty, the masterpiece in it's clutches,
Every now and then a silence, God's painter softly brushes.
Another casting shadow, or red touches on the sky,
And in the pocket of evening, the painter's colours lie.
And for his final touch, he paints the holder of the scene,
A quiet man is standing, upon the land of emerald green.