Stone boxes; ruined, roofless cottages empty as looted coffins
at the foot of Slievemore.
How time scoured the ruins: Atlantic squalls dousing the walls
to their sterile stones,
silencing ghost whisperings from ancient hearths; no presences
lingering beneath doorway lintels
but skittles and jack stones played between the huddled houses;
the voices of children reverberating
between the walls; women laughing, gossiping, cajoling down by
the stream
carried, like rain on the wind, down the years, in from ocean, over
the grassy wave.
Lost spirits laughing, complaining, shouting, teasing, arguing, joking;
the deserted houses with their mouths agape,
tongues missing, and the dream light of day passing over them like
some ancient prankster.
No comments:
Post a Comment