No 4. Cavan Sonnet.
Frost on the grass by silky Lough Sheelin
And chromed by the moon as vibrant trout breach
Breifne’s brethren at turf fires are kneeling
From Cuilcaghs a brook the ocean shall reach
Perched on a crannog Oughter’s own castle
And Burren so pure the angels rejoice
Cabra on high with drape and gold tassle
As Cavan’s ghosts chant, together in voice
Hawthorns adorning the road to Cootehill
While lake waters lap on each golden shore
Each God given bird makes music so shrill
‘Tis there I shall rest and sleep evermore
Oh smooth Cavan hills my home and my love
And meadows so soft, yes soft as a dove.
Tom Clancy
tomclancy 