Darkness Of The West
A place so alive in its own loneliness. Alive with
Big bleak rocks that stare awkwardly as suspended
Erratics alone on hills or as clusters in dead fields.
Or perhaps alive with the awe of countless sheep
Grazing, ignorant to the world. Blessed.
Land so poor it engulfs all life before it.
All that can be heard in the dead of night rugged
Is the deafening sound of blackness
And a million starving souls,
Disturbingly pushing up food
For as many uninterested sheep, eternally.
Yet Connemara’s darkness is solitude is beauty.
Even when cold mist lies low on the sorry fields,
Even when the rain pounds hard on the weary earth.