Scoil na gCruach 1907-1971

114 BEAIACH NA gCREACH ('THE WAY OF THE PLUNDER') An tSiur Maire Ni Chuirc The moon is standing on tiptoe. 'It's a bad moon.' they are saying, 'For rain, aye, for rain.' The ridge of hills cuts the air cleanly in the winter afternoon 's light. Clear as the lark's song, high above the bog; Clear as the brook's ripple and mumble, It's secret words of moment, spoken in a hidden world, unknown. In the cold blue sky barred clouds ofjet stream, as by a giant ruler drawn , contain the mountain's curve and randomness. And at my feet, the brown brook water echoes the rose colour lent to the clouds by a hidden western sun, There are echoes, too, in the biscuit-coloured moor grass. I look for a way to speak of the light in the air, pale, pale b lue, to tell of the li fe in the colours, in textured beige and brown and moss. Today, there are no summer purples or deep dusty blues. Today is Winter. But there is no winter here like the prisoning of earth beneath streets and neon signs and sounding trains. Here are blanket rolls of mist bet\iveen the hills