In Ireland’s ancient mists, a tale unfolds,
Of Stone Age souls, where history molds,
A canvas blank, in nature’s rugged embrace,
As Mesolithic whispers paint their grace.

Eight thousand years, a timeless flight,
Nomadic hearts, in the soft moonlight,
Hunter-gatherers, in tribes so small,
In Ireland’s cradle, they heard the call.

Stone tools their craft, flint blades so keen,
Arrowheads aimed where the wild was seen,
Survival’s dance, their primal creed,
In the forest’s heart, they’d find their need.

No permanent homes, but campsites by the stream,
In twilight’s lullaby, where firelight did gleam,
Rivers, lakes, coastal shores to explore,
Nature’s bounty, on Ireland’s ancient floor.

Fire’s sacred warmth, in the silent night,
Cooking the spoils, in flickering light,
A guardian, a hearth, a flicker’s art,
In the dark unknown, it played its part.

No armies clashed, in organized war,
Their foes were nature’s fiercest roar,
harsh winds, biting cold, and the endless night,
their battles in shadows, where the stars took flight.

Yet resilience and wisdom, they did acquire,
Adapting, evolving, their spirits higher,
A Stone Age symphony, in nature’s grand ballet,
In Ireland’s heart, they found their way.

In time’s great span, a chapter penned,
Stone Age echoes, to the future send,
The journey of a people, in nature’s gentle stream,
A master’s poem, in this ancient dream.