On a Sunday walk along the banks of the turbulent river,
how easy it is to see why it was named the Boiling Barrow.
Home to the remains of three fearsome serpents, plucked
from the heart of the impossibly ugly infant born to Morrigú.
Dian Cecht, whose mystical mind should have known better, burned
them down to powdery cinders which he flung across the water.
The vengeful serpents, their wickedness undimmed by death, churned
and twisted in the murky depths, killing all who dared live there.
And today, without rest, the river still runs deep and wild,
feared by those who know and understand it; those who for
generations have lived so carefully on its banks.
Not a river to be trifled with, even on a Sunday walk.