The blackthorns above Fenore
are flight rooted;
they are folklore’s skeletons,
beggars of the green road.
Scoured to the knuckle,
stunted on burren karst,
they are the hags on the mountain
hunched from Atlantic gales.
Yet even this stone-weary day,
with hunger perched on their throats,
a robin is singing in each
notes that singe the February air.
Beneath the huddling sky,
into the ear of the green road
it pours, clear as water,
the music of tin whistlers’ dreams.
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