1. Tied by mortal feet

To an inland place

I would be one of

Lir’s unhappy swans

Blown across the wintry

Straits of Moyle

This bland wind has

No taste, no smell

It sweeps down fiercely

From the hills

And knocks the heads  

Off blooms already dead.

2. Heedless of the

Grey, polluted air

The whins blazed

I gazed and saw them

Shine above the singing

Northern sands

Some bastard

Burned them down –

The skinny twigs are twisted

Black and crumbling

Street-locked and bereft

I am left to suffocate.



One thought on ““Landscapes”

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