SLIEVEMORE DESERTED VILLAGE

​

Curlew calls over the lake

as the rain clears.

Brittle wisps hiss, like

phone wires to an island.

Low cloud communicates

with famine ridges.

​

And in the ruins, I imagine

thin limbs of victims

outstretched to bridge the time.

In shame I retreat alone.

Their grandchildren ageing gracefully now

in Pennsylvania and Chicago.

​

Diminished grass is slowly consumed

Rushes enjoy a sinister revenge.

Their creeping paralysis ruthless

even in the most sacred places.

In the distance a figure approaches,

stumbles across the bog onto a track.

​

He disappears now and then in the hollows.

Smoked like a Moroccan street trader

he offers me a load of breast turf,

as if boatloads of grain wouldn't leave the quay,

as if magpies wouldn't pick our eyes out,

as if grass wouldn't melt in our mouths.