Thursday, April 19, 2007

One

The rocky cliffs cry out the names of forgotten ones,
counting the dead for generations.

Now nothing grows on rough sketchy plains
only a bitter breeze bites and howls -
stings the cheek and face,
where once children's singing crept up the slopes of Connemara
and made a little root illuminate the stars.

1 comment:

Joykie said...

WHERE'S MY COMMENT, lazy poof???

(they dont say scorpios are demanding for nothing...:P) hugs.