Drung Hill

At Drunghill, kissed by Dingle Bay, I stand and watch the scene,

The towering hills above me, bedecked in gold and green.

The water blue beneath me as the sunshine spreads its sheen,

The gorse and purple heather, their brilliant colours gleam.

Oh here it is no fairyland, but native in the raw.

The massive towering mountains hug the ocean like a claw.

Their peaks reach to high heaven, like a wood-man’s sharpened saw,

Or the alligator’s fierce teeth as it opens wide its jaw,

The gushing mountain streamlet’s, laced white as if with lace,

As they tumble like a falling star about to win a race,

The fleecy mist, like cotton flake on Santy Clause’s face

Seem to refine the mountain peaks, and temper them with grace.

There’s one thing sure, one can’t deny, the angels took a hand

In moulding all the beauty designed by God’s right hand.

Here Heaven is reflected, as you must understand,

When standing here at Drunghill, to view this beauty grand.

And just around the corner there sits the cove of Kells,

Its majesty in woodlands, its nooks and shady dells

With cottages all gleaming white, which make the soul transcend,

Here’s Heavens gracious beauty, to make a perfect blend.

And when life’s span is over, and my soul prepared to fly,

I shall crave the Lord, our master, that its here I hope to die.

My soul would soar to Heaven, through the soft blue misty sky,

To mingle with the angels forever to enjoy.

Obsessed, enthralled, enchanted, confess indeed must I,

That my soul must circle Drunghill, to hear the seagulls cry.

Her notes will join the angels’ choir, far, far above on high,

With the ocean’s constant music, to spread eternal joy.

Patrick Joseph Griffin, Lisbawn.