A stream, somewhere in Connemara,
working its way through strewn boulders,
over a mosaic of rust-coloured stones.
The thousand sounds of water, finding
its races constantly blocked, celebrating
boisterously its thousand victories.
The percussion of its falling into pools
isolated in hollows beneath the rocks;
a deeper tock under the spray’s sibilance.
The sprightliness of mountain flow
through the gentle, soft greenery
of the fields beneath the slopes.
The exuberance of those waters rushing
through the channels of a young boy’s heart;
rushing still.
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