That it was more ancient, more permanent than the sweet clash of hurleys.

There were things around us when we were growing up,

That blessed us with sweetness and terror, a Holy Well – do they still visit it?

 

A Protestant Church choirs were heard in the graveyard in the dead of night.

Did the Moat mute mysterious echo of the forgotten historical pageant.

You had a view from the top of the fertile plains of Limerick

A flighty cloud over a wooded hill.

 

A miserable old greyhound sunning himself in front of the grotto,

And at night the stars looking down on the moat as though their orphan

It was our own Tara, if the truth be told.

The deep heart of the universe.

 

Gabriel Rosenstock (b. 1949)