Celtic Goodness for the Soul

Feel the blood boil and race along gilded paths,
as the rhythm of the bodhran forces the clouds away.
The lofty highlands stretch far beyond the eye,
yet the Rock is all I see.

In the misty morning the pipes blow heavy against the thick air,
once again sounding the call to arms.
To the rock, to the rock!
To the rock, again, we must go.

But Oh! Cruel mistress,
we see once again your fickle ways!
What once seemed a noble task from the comfort of our well lit houses,
now appears to be little more than sharp crystals embedded in stone.

Short hours pass in your frigid embrace
till I am forced once again to unwillingly leave,
with tips on fire and body like heaviest lead,
I must depart, but the day is not yet o'er.

My mind is impinged with thoughts of what might have been,
what might have worked...
hold that - like this, or this - like that?
all must wait till the clouds roll out again.

The pipes sound up once more,
and the drum rolls out, the beat now slower.
More thoughtful, more wise.
Tomorrow the contest begins anew.


Or listen to it if you cba to read...





Goodnight all, Ice and rest.