Donegal

A line of stones; the threat of so much space, a fallen horizon. Salt grass coarse with rain, nights heavy with tides and the battered story of the sea,the broken gong of the moon, strange friends. Then,I knew not what to call the rough curves of peat, slight of the sea, a bodhran wind over the rocks. When I am no more; let me melt in the rain of this cold coast, its own name shaped, the seagull`s call.