Poetry

The ghostly galleon
Rising above the
Mountains
In all it's mystery;
Dispersing the last
Gypsy's ribbon of
Color,
Fading the final light of
The bright day to nothing.
It's the scent of
Rain
After a summer storm.
The ground is
Overturned with
The force and
Power.
It's the song of
Caoimhe, the fays’ tune;
The haunting sound
Trickling, flowing over the
Far hills.
It’s a swirling stream,
The silver water
Gliding down your
throat as you
sip, being
deprived for so
long.
This is freedom.
This is simply,

Poetry.