I have heard this music and I’ve seen it
where the small houses are strung high and low
around the spring-line, on tussocky hillsides
above the coast; quavers, semi-quavers.
I’ve seen it in the rise and fall of the walls dancing
on those wild fields strewn with bald, granite heads;
where the road above Bunowen, bright as water, plays,
a fiddle string strung between showers.
The clouds dash, Grand National-style, across the sky
and over the slivers of lakes between the mountains;
lakes that beam back bright notes, sweet cascading
sunlight, as the sun too is wheeled across the landscape.
I’ve heard the music streaming along the wires, piping
through stone walls, lilting in pine needles, whistling
under barn doors, humming around the corners of buildings;
and always to that great booming drone of the Atlantic.
Treble clef, fragments of conversations speckling the music
like raindrops; voices, with the accents of uileann pipes,
in the mosaic of sound carried on the wind: the screeching gulls,
piping oystercatchers, a curlew's faraway keen.
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