No tree grows on the marginal slope
where a seafaring people measure
each day by the way of the wind.
 
From the edge of Faill a’ Stáicín
the heavenly blue
the torquoise tide
nets in the distance
shimmer and search
 
light drenches
the foam-tipped waves.
 
The tapestry of land
is ruled by
the handcrafting
of the elements
 
little fields divided
whose rib-like ridges
could only
yield potatoes
zigzags
rectangles
skewed triangles
and the circle of life 
 
 
like threads in the warp with their
chestnut
yellow-rust
     verdant
             purple
the wheaten weft  
the honeyed gold
 
the memories of rocks
will whisper the words:
 
….the Sheep’s Cliff
the Pool of Light
the Dog’s Rock
the Piper’s Cliff.....
 
 
and when furze flowers  
the countryside blushes with joy,
 
does the dance of its soul
on the hearthstone of life.