Crogga Glen

 

There are, for those who seek retreat

From the hard-pressing demons of the city street,

From the insistent clamour of the herd,

Still to be found huched regions where no word

Breaks in upon the heart

With tidings of calamity, where art

Betrays no artifice or laboured scheme,

And life has all the rapture of a dream.

Here is this island where, from shackles freed,

The slaves of industry for a brief while can feed

On plenitude of healing grace,

In many a quiet place.

 

In Crogga Glen, beneath the massed trees’ shade,

No vulgar banners are displayed,

No traffic save the rabbits at their play,

No squadrons but the birds, and no affray

Save battling beetles and the skirmishes

Of ants, no fleets but gliding fishes

In the clear dappled rivulet.

Yet so near (so some believe) as in Hell’s inlet

To the pearled gates of Paradise

There lie a glen and beach where raucous cries

Loudly betray

The wilder extroverts on holiday.

But such is the calm power within the wood

That all man’s foolishness is understood,

And in the generous favour of wide Heaven

Condemned not, but forgiven !

 

Mona’s Herald     24.4.62