Though yesterday, a garden day,
Was spread with yellow,
Today grew into autumn’s gradual grey.

There was only us on Slieve Foy,
Climbing mist and rainward,
Through sucking soil,
Alongside slopping streams,
We rounded respectfully the now orange,
Barely-purple flecked heather,
Carefully, up and up we trod
Toward the vancing quick-silvered,
Rain-roof quilted clouds
That pulled over us from the Irish Sea,
Biting into our summit’s sight
Like ravenous wraiths,
Their conglomerate tongues licking passionately
Round and across eerily lofted colls
Where we saw Cuchulan’s ghosts
Swirl above old granite goblins
Looking out and down to the fjord,
Watchful over ancient ancestral craft:
And we took refuge from the rain,
Between high-backed, black-statued stones
Where we drank our coffee
And rested till our sweat turned cold.