Isn’t the windswept hawthorn the most perfect representation of the mountain weather in Barnesmore, Donegal. Gnarled, grizzled, stunted, they protrude from the moss-coloured slopes like the skeletons of prehistoric birds struck flightless at their moment of take-off. They are crusty old codgers caught in photogenic poses between the grey-lichened outcrops of granite and the moving outcrops that are the sheep on the mountain, and the tangling, cloud-coloured, gushing streams. They make for the best of neighbours.
Poetry by Irish poet Michael O'Dea. (poems © Michael O’Dea, Dedalus Press, Amastra-n-Galar, Lapwing Publications)
Monday, December 10, 2007
Hawthorns on the mountain
Isn’t the windswept hawthorn the most perfect representation of the mountain weather in Barnesmore, Donegal. Gnarled, grizzled, stunted, they protrude from the moss-coloured slopes like the skeletons of prehistoric birds struck flightless at their moment of take-off. They are crusty old codgers caught in photogenic poses between the grey-lichened outcrops of granite and the moving outcrops that are the sheep on the mountain, and the tangling, cloud-coloured, gushing streams. They make for the best of neighbours.
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