Monday, 26 August 2013


Morag was wild, young, free & so very pretty,
She lived in deep woods far away from the city,
Gaelic lass in her heart, soul & her ancient name,
Danced through lilac heather, never to be tamed.

In her long free life she loved only four lucky men,
One for each season & with whom to roll in fens,
They´d lift their tartan kilts & she her scarlet skirts,
Together they´d run in gorse & with the seasons flirt.

Off to glens they´d run, to nature´s mating grounds,
Upon wings of butterflies, to calls of hunting hounds,
And they´d romp from spring, until the frost was hard,
Morag & her men, Ovate, Druid, Og & the musing Bard.

Bard she loved in spring, with his odes of dulcet words,
Ovate in summer, with his love potions of gathered herbs,
Druid in autumn, with wisdom upon his wise old breath,
But Og´s the one who claims her, on the day of her death.

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