Congregated in a circle in a field in Cork,
backs hunched dark against the driving rain,
heads covered, faces hidden, unfathomable
presences humming low
-- the sea coiling inside a mountain,
the wind trapped inside a hollow oak,
gale stuck in the high stone tower
all day, all the rain long --.
Incantation, tumulus and ditch, tumulus and ditch
concentrically droning outward,
draining into the earth’s pinna, swallow-hole,
the whorl of light, green and time.
No comments:
Post a Comment