In company of mistletoe, fungi, moss, and lichen
the giant stretched forth its mighty limbs
and ring by ring outlived those special eyes
which once reflected their acorn treasure.

The woodsmen stayed their axes
and turned to stare at fallen titans
bearing ugly damning emblems
red with blood.

They wept.

Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. He even finds it on occasion.