“Sunrise over the Wicklow mountains”

Mist curls like breathing over heathered ground,  
A hush of lilac whispers, cool and pale,  
While darkness tarries gently, snugly wound  
Around the eager promise of the vale.  

Then, eastward, Wicklow trembles at the rim—  
Bronze fire, kindling cloud to trembling gold—  
The bog’s slick pools reflect on sorrow’s whim  
A world made young, with every sunrise told.  

Granite spines rise sturdy through the dew,  
Their steadfast bones glint ochre in the light.  
The larch and rowan, painted pink and blue,  
Glance upward, bathing leaves in soft delight.  

Beyond Glenmalure, shadows lace and scatter—  
The river flashes silver in its race.  
A red deer steps, as if the day might shatter,  
Its breath a fleeting ghost in saffron space.  

Oh, Wicklow wakes with choruses of thrush—  
Lambs tumble, luminous, on velvet swards;  
Here sunlight sings, each hope a tender hush  
That lingers on these gentle Irish lords.  

In Wicklow’s dawn, the world’s heart finds release—  
A fleeting flame, a sanctuary’s peace.

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