Clinton Scollard

The Isle of Doom

  Out of the mist off Galway shore,
    Out of the morning mist,
  Rose the island of Hy Brasail
    With its crags of amethyst;

  Crags of purple and amethyst,
    And meads of gleaming green,
  Rose the island of Hy Brasail
    With a shimmer of sea between.

  And what shall come to Galway shore,
    What shadow of doom prevail,
  With this fading dream of the mists of morn,
    This island of Hy Brasail?