Martin Hayes Playing

Martin Hayes playing a road’s river sheen in
the last light of a November evening as coal
dust of night collects on the North Clare coast.
Telephone wire is sagging between the poles
and the rough grass fangs in the fading light.

A wind blowing angry off Galway Bay paring
away the skins of the rocks of the Burren hills
carrying splinters of rain and occasional piped
notes from wandering dark specks on the shore.
In the distance one yellow-coloured window

under the dark bulk of a disappearing hillside
at once inviting and shiveringly cold.
The notes flowing like drops of rain along a wire
wind’s metal scraping through that empty place
and the ear of God five miles out to sea.