Stone
stone laid upon dry stone
should be no cause for wonder
but the upturned keel of Gallarus
over tamped earth – dry
after a millennium of rain
brings even the garrulous to stillness
mist swirls in through light hatches
high in beehive huts at Skellig
as monkish breath once drifted out
their bones dimpled from graft and heft
on Inis Mór, Meáin, Oir
round rocks tumble into gap
cable, herringbone and moss
stitch dead men’s memories into walls
bone-white fritillary carves Connemara
sieves the wind – more absence than presence
but dare to shift a boundary boulder
and your blood will darken the rock
in Waterford a woman stops to take in
a length of wall an old lover made
his slow stacking, balancing and long looks
part of the landscape now
in Beara a deft stile lies unstepped
green roads shoulder-high with bramble
a moss-filled basin deep-hewn into rock
a bridge arches traffickless
stone
laid upon dry stone
their only lasting mark
on this soft wet land