The Cliffs of Moher
The wind bereaves wayward souls
hugs at the corners; unrolls pageants
where bitterns ‘round battered lighthouses
hale-gust promontories sound-crush
winds forty miles prey on
tummy-crawls to vertiginous falls
organs fastened to skin and skeleton
by the barest of margins.
Eire robs your heart,
wraps it round your ankle,
stolen by the Gaeltacht poetry
Guinness and silent Green hills,
meandering in the mid-distance and
clasping to her knoll
-Back in ’96 I was on a forsaken hill in Ireland, as lost to earth and kin as this world can offer. The green undulating hills were big enough to offer invisibility, but not so high as to make the climbs difficult. There in the old air I pondered the white fleece of visiting sheep and rams, some with horns and stares of unnerving alertness. What was I looking for on those unbeaten, scat-scattered paths?