six years I toiled
in a land not my own
slave to the captor
in a land not my own
slave to the captor
till I heard the startling
Voice tell me of
a ship to take me back
home was not my
final destiny but
a momentary
resting place
till I saw the shimmering
Vision of the land
calling me to return
no longer a bondsman
Focluth was my fortune
where ancient forest trees
meet the Western Sea
reading the letter of
prophecy unfolding
transported in time
till I felt the calling
Muse of metaphor
shamrock in hand
expounding mysteries
of the divine
