Here's a poem that was just given to me as I was telling tales for St Patrick's day in Second Life: This is why I do this poetry diary, because poetry just comes. and it becomes a kind of map of your life, laying down a trail of crumbs to follow.

 Arran of the many stags, the sea reaches to its shoulders
Island where comanies were fed
Ridge where blue spears are reddened

Wanton deer upon its peaks,
Mellow blackberries on its heaths,
Cold water in its streams, nuts upon its brown oaks.

Hunting dogs there, and hounds,
Blackberries and sloes of the dark blackthorn
Dense thorn-bushes ints woods
Stags astray among its oak-groves

Gleaning of purple lichen on its rocks, grass without blemish on its slopes
As sheltering cloak over its crags
Gambolling of fawns, trout leaping

Smooth is its lowland, fat its swine, pleasant its fields
A tale you may believe
Its nuts on the tips of its hazel-wood,
Sailing of long galleys past it
It is delightful for them when fine weather comes
Trout under the banks of its rivers
Seagulls answer each other round its white cliff
Delightful at all times is Arran.