Monaghan Hills

Monaghan hills, You have made me the sort of man I am, A fellow who can never care a damn For Everestic thrills. The country of my mind Has a hundred little heads, On none of which foot-room for genius. Because of you I am a half-faithed ploughman, Shallow furrows at my heels, Because of you I am a beggar of song And a coward in thunder. If I had been born among the Mournes, Even in Forkhill, I might have had echo-corners in my soul Repeating the dawn laughter. I might have climbed to know the glory Of toppling from the roof of seeing – O Monaghan hills, when is writ your story, A carbon-copy will unfold my being.