A Threating Storm off the Western Isles

Great waves from the Atlantic sea,
Break hard along the Cliffs of Moher;
Sea birds swoop -- dive through the spray,
To check the flotsam shore.

Off the Aran Islands,
Weathered fishermen haul in nets,
Then row their currachs towards the shore,
Before the tempest sets.

The dry stone walls take some comfort,
From the ancient fort on Inishmore,
It faced a million storms, and stood;
Strong enough to withstand a million more.

Across the Burren wasteland,
Which Cromwell, cursed as Hell,
Medb, the Connacht warrior Queen,
Is still unrepentant that the Hound of Ulster fell.

The skeletons of dolmens,
Stand above this ground the ice age scored;
Past storms have taken up their bones,
This one will take some more.