ising seven-hundred-and-six meters into sky, unearthed at the base of the isle between the city of modernity and bustle, and the place where they make the Claddagh rings and speak old ways, sits a thing of majesty. They call her Knockboy. They call her Yellow Mountain. Earth itself sent roving heaps of ice to polish her the right height to lookout for invaders of empires long from memory. Travellers spring from her streams. Plants with no purpose but beauty thrive into the strangest of soils on Éire. But if no one tells you, you might think Knockboy only a mountain.
by Laura Hallman