Clinton Scollard


  Wrapt in mist and washed with rain
  Is the hill of Rahinane;
  Compassed by the hosts of sleep
  Is its keep.

  Only shadows come and go;
  Only wraiths flit to and fro;
  And the bat, grotesque and blind,
  And the wind.

  Just a shard of shattered hope
  On a barren Kerry slope;
  Just a ruin in the rain,

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