Irish Elk

Giant antlers shine at night
diamond, sapphire, branch

in a neighbour's garden,
light up the moonless dark

for children going to bed,
as if the Great Irish Elk,

extinct seven thousand years,
turned in his grave

beneath the lake at Lough Gur,
and bellowing rose

from the bog, trailing peat
from his hinds, to roam

the hills and woods of Ireland,
at this time of snow

falling all across the land,
on our road, ghost at

large, and twice as tall as Man
come back to haunt us.

by Catherine Phil MacCarthy

Other poems of PHIL MACCARTHY (3)

Comments (3)

of course we still dream, on a wide ranging scale as wide as the sea.
This poem is lovely, but the final two lines took my breath away. Surely we still dream. Now that we have landed on the moon, there are always galaxies...or heaven itself...and of course ShangriLa never goes away. Raynette
I like your poetry, especially this one. I love to read it and see those places in my minds eye so vividly, your descriptions are wonderful. Well done.