The Silent Valley

The blue mist rolls through the valley,
shrouding peaks, inclemency the Lord of Erin skies.

Four seasons in a day a common phrase,
dark deviant clouds, displace bright solar smiles

Autumn rushes in unnoticed,
few trees to hail its' splendour in vivid hues

The chill bites to the bone,
as the growling of an autumn storm approaches

Stock brought down from high ground
before they have to swallow winter's bitter pill

Unique in beauteous isolation,
this Silent Valley slumbers as quiet as a grave

Winters' awesome splendour,
displayed In all its' glory across The Mournes.