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.