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The icy winds attacks her face
As she surveys this barren place.
Hoe in hand, she scratches earth,
Hoping to foment rebirth.
Her face is carved from chiselled stone,
An ancient statue, all alone.
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Upon the brow of yonder hill,
A figure stands, remote and still,
Gazing down upon the shack
Among the boulders, scorched and black.
Eyes awash and stature bent,
He starts upon the long descent.
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She spies the movement with a start
And with a quickness of the heart,
Though well she knows she could not cope
With dashed and disappointed hope,
But still she stands with steady gaze,
Remembering those far-off days.
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Down the slope, the figure strides
To where the weathered crone resides.
And every step he takes gets longer,
Faster, firmer, louder, stronger.
Upon the ditch he throws is pack
And gallops headlong down the track.
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She drops her hoe as he comes nearer.
Now she sees his features clearer.
Gasping, in complete surprise,
A surge wells up behind her eyes.
Arms outstretched, she hobbles out
With speechless throat and heart devout.
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She clasps him first in wild embrace,
Then cups her hands about his face.
And in her breast an angel sings
Of joy that this reunion brings.
He’s wiped away her months of pain –
The Eircom League is back again.