It’s different here on the westward side
The cairns are small
or not at all
long running mounds—no one knows how many lie below.
In a dreamI see the skyso blue aboveand—grassesringingthe openingbending downtoward me—witnessesgenerationaftergenerationsurvivingeverythingeven the droughtcome upon us late.The grass remembers,covers our naked bones,draws up our misery—gives it to the skyasha
to carry away.
published in West & Mid Kerry Live
