Carrowkeel

 

Fog, it’s the mountain’s breath.

We arrive at the first cairn,

looming out of nothing:

fog ‒ colour of limestone;

fog made into stone.

We breath it;

breath in their spirits;

mountain of fog;

we enter the cairn;

enter a womb.

Crouched inside;

in no place, no time;

stone, air, water speaking

the language we have forgotten;

we must be reborn to hear it.