Book Of Kells

Icicles thawed on a windowsill
While snow fell freely around,
Sometimes softening skies are colder
Than six feet under ground.
Powder the keg with winter,
The dampened light has dried;
This is a song from a hinterland
Where once a curlew cried.

I am not for haunting,
We walk with heads bowed down,
Snowfall is resounding,
Church bells not long silent,
Insular majuscule art.

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