Gaelic Tours, Down That Road. Poem by Michael Gale

The forrest's, the forrest, the forrest troll....
Beget the childish, stymied stroll.

Alas, at last, thy rumored foal...
Hoof'ed strangers, a-mask'ed soul.

Bereft, belief in ancient throes...
Hatred ignited, ire, grows.

Untold form in Gaelic throne...
Reshine the light of legend's shone.

Searched thy soul of emptied status....
Demon's grasp by those that had us.

Reborn to newness, the olden image...
Dilute, the wasted washing's homage.

Alas, the stated, one, that fate....
Ever most this hated age.

Along the un wandered road...
Routed rage.