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Galtymore my Compass

I'm recovering from the 2025 winter flu and It leaves deadly tiredness. It's 8 days from Christmas and in the last few days I've gone into town but I get too tired to do anything about Christmas. Today and yesterday the same, I go in with lists, I can't do anything, everything is so busy and crowded and I get tired and hopeless, I get milk for tea and I get food for supper and I come home and back to bed. Several high profile musicians and singers have said bed is a good place to be if you need inspiration, and I wrote a brand new poem in bed today, it's 'Galtymore, my compass, and the words for it have been blooming over the past few weeks, waiting to be arranged: 

Galtymore, my compass.

Here we are in our little world,
guarded by the Silvermines, the Galtees curled.
Seen and unseen, they shelter us all,
and Galtymore stands, my compass, my call.

If we’re driving down Mount Meelick’s way,
the Galtees wave on the horizon, capped in grey.
If I go down to beloved Killarney,
Galtymore watches, wishing safe journey.

And if I head for Cork — and who would choose? —
I still watch Galtymore fade from my view.
And most of all, when I’m in Tipperary,
with soft, kind voices and tea that’s legendary,
with great tales told as the daylight fades,
Galtymore guards us, a fatherly gaze.

Then I desert him for Dublin’s height,
but he knows I’ll return, knows the rhythm of my flight.
I sleep under Three Rock, old friend and guide,
guardian of South Dublin, steady and wide,

Until Galtymore, my compass, once more
brings me safely, surely, home to his door.



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