There was a time, maybe thirteen or fourteen years ago when it seemed the country was rid, once and for all, of the sad days of mass emigration. All was lift; then came the collapse. Now, Dublin is vibrant again, but in many rural parts it's the old story of population decline, absence of youth, absence of vigour.
The scene I'm describing seemed like it was becoming less relevant, but unfortunately no.
No People
The hunch-doubled thorns,
ingrown pantries
dung-puddled;
the moss-stone walls
tumble-gapped.
The nettle-cracked
doorway,
lintel-fallen
byre-footed;
the cloud curtained
windows
elder-berried.
The stone-sheltered air
bumbled still,
ruin-reverent;
the submerged garden
ridges
dumb-founded.
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