Barnesmore
An Bearna Mór
A river runs through,
a road runs through,
the wires run through,
the wind runs through,
the rain runs through,
the snow runs through.
The moon stops,
its chin in its hand;
its mesmerising stare,
its silver gaze filling the pass;
nothing stirs
but ever so stealthily, the river
stealing the light away.
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