Growing Up

  

  

    

  Shortly you will trace lines,

  leave,

  join the herds,

  leave a trail among the trails

  meandering over the hills.

 

  We are part of some eccentric’s

  geometry;

  I wish I could tell you more,

  my little love.

In Mayo

 

The sky:

 

            rags on bushes

            in a wintry gale.

 

The barbed-wire fence:

 

            a lunatic's music

            sprinting down the valley.

 

The mountains:

 

           tossed heads

           with their silvering sheen.

 

Telephone wire:

 

            daisy-chained voices

            humming out of tune.

 

The lake:

 

            a shirt that blew

            off a line.

 

Rowan tree:

 

            tongue on the mountain

            shaping high C.