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Cuchulainn, the Hound of Ulster ©

Shaw o' Inchrory
Cheshire, England

On Achill's sea-aged shore, a wester Isle
stands solitude, a self, it wondering while
what season's gift, sand's wide sweep clean
as harvest August lune a fullness seen
mellows night's mood in beam bred smile
fairway itself, to Selene's own fallow style.

Sea scented breeze, neap tides, own weeping state
man's minded rote, rolls back, night's long debate
to hear again an ancient tale, where men of pain regale
death's call to tempt a strident voiced Cuchulainn.
from night's reverie, as drunken stupor's quested kin
of flame bred blood; a Celtic's true genetic bane, begin
to drive a Connacht Queen from Murheimne plain.

Life screams self-darkened glimpse of skua's dive
as Morigan fley night thieves, their drovers live.
Cuchulainn from his cattle placed, a prided steal
till placement's fate deigned its own doomed feel;
demonical its desire a accursed, Achilles heel.

Cuchulain's battle cry howled rage in vengeance loud
fire's chariot hurtled towards foes sly fled crowd.
Slaughtering all that before him imaged ran
spared ne'er a single shadowed Connacht's man
as night's raven cried of death, time's raucous calls began.

Near ten hundred heads he took in night's long day
staked them eye high that men may ever say,
No cattle from my lands will stray
lest death does it, own purposed pleasure pay.

Bolden red bronze of Cuchulainn hair
Crowned Celtic Lord without compare.
True finest of Ulster's and Kings own clan
War Lord Supreme, the Hound of all Culann.

What magic scenes tense night portrays
when whiskies wonder, will's minds own ways
above sea's rote once more, life mighty roars
as two wheeled chariot's loud speeds implores

Life's pulsed engine screams across night lit empty sands
with more than a hundred horsed powers held within mine hands.
once more, relives I, testosterone's blood rush of glorious youth
before time's distant call; my racing days, and broken bones, of truth.

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