fashioned immortal stone into immortal bricks
freshening the timeless, well formed, the wicker filled stack

tangled tunes and thickened ropes of lies
conspire together to ground the desperate spirit

honoured priests, honour your dead
build words into castles, soon to crumble, soon to dissipate

speech then silence then silence
you have wrestled the essence of Ireland’s mad memory

distressed limestone, wrinkled as a broken balloon
formed the core of the corpse-house at old Rashee

has been old bodies well roofed here
throws of thatched root scars now lace it

gorse not far, twisting its fullness through
furrowed turf, soft beneath brown flecked feet

too many shadows have been built into
a mask of sorts, beautiful, drunk with the darkness

lean and tilt, pallid stones, names all but gone

candles once broke beams gently
flickered till mere fuse and spoilt tallow

thick white walls where no one wailed
silent then and silent now

bent structure billows as bodies are burnt
lick the ash, place one person’s putty upon the forehead

tired old goat tied firmly to a yellowing gorse
bruising its ankles with intention and terminal tenacity

heaven’s visitors join the dance as beams push through
a visible prayer, ghastly to the gloom and green

sip the mould and scar the loins
nettle fed few, harsh masters of a thousand winged entities

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