Rostrevor

Winter brims over bouldered ground above Rostrevor. Louring skies meld blue lough to green forest. Needling wind keens through raftered bones, once homes, hewn from ancient granite. Mourne claims her own, over and over, defeating generations. Hasp and staple, galvanised against the sleekit mist, defend rude-lintelled doors. Who comes? Only ghosts of emigrants, wraiths of mountainy men whose quick selves coaxed poor life from pale, barren hills above Rostrevor.