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The rimy black limbs of winter,
Creaking beneath woolen skies,
Flush to red-budded brown
-- And dry.
The hills, casting off their hoary coats,
Revel in Lugh's shinning light.
Flaunt their Connemara underthings
-- And sigh.
Exultant; Lugh hunts for Frost,
Driving his spear into cracks.
Decay weeps not for his peer,
But gnaws and withdraws from attack.
Burgeoning hills flourish and swell,
Spilling waters into the moors.
Buds erupt from every nerve-ending,
And the verdant child is reborn.
Under quiescent care of paladin pine,
The trees slowly reclothe their bones.
In finest attire for Imbolc feast,
They delve into heath and stone.