The Shannon stretches its long, strong arm out from under the hill where I stand. Its fingers reach far out of sight, the ludeen and thumb thrust deep into the Deel and Fergus estuaries. A jet plane away in the distance, like a minnow in a blue sea, drones on its way, nosing through cottonwool clouds. But here around all is deathly still and the brown bog water, unrippled, awaits a gathering wind to soak it skywards. My mind goes back to bitter times long past when many a hapless wretch was dragged up this hill to his Golgotha. But then, does it really matter – whether it was here on lonely Gallow’s Hill, on a city street in Derry, Enniskillen, Monaghan, Dublin or Omagh, in Belsen or in Bangladesh, Kosovo, or so many other bleak troublespots of this world that man-made DEATH by bullet, hemp rope, gas or explosives occurred ? Christ, should not Your Crucifixion have been enough to assuage all savagery forever? I turn, but all still seems so quiet. Then, suddenly a sunshaft spotlights a Solitary primrose blooming on a clay bank; And almost immediately, a brace of grouse, About thirty yards off arise out of the heather And fly away towards Cratloe Woods. For me happily, life is back up here again And a happy Eastertime, abeckoning.