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 Two Workmen were carrying a sheet of asbestos
down the main street of Dingle;
it must have been nailed, at a slight angle,
to the same-sized gap between Brandon

and whichever's the next mountain.
Nine o'clock.
We watched the village dogs take turns to spritz the hotel's refuse-sacks.
I remembered Tralee's unbiodegradable flags from the time of the hunger-strikes.
We drove all day past mounds of sugar-beet, hay-stacks, silage-pits, building-sites, a thatched cottage even— all of them draped in black polythene and weighted against the north-east wind by concrete blocks, old tyres; bags of sand at a makeshift army post across the border.
By the time we got to Belfast the whole of Ireland would be under wraps like, as I said, 'one of your man's landscapes'.
'Your man's? You don't mean Christo's?'

Poem by Paul Muldoon
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