The wind combing the grass silver,
tossing the heather;
the humours of the sky,
scowls and laughter,
tracing the mountainside’s contours,
a hunt at full gallop
through the gap.
The duns and greens, bright yellows
flitting light and shade,
carrying the atlas of the sky
over the gushing streams,
the ravines, the bracken meadows;
the exhilaration, fluid mosaic,
Donegal to Ballybofey.
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