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Poem	Long stalks of rain are growing from the skies down towards ash-black soil, softer than deer hearts frozen in concentration at river banks Everything that is not here lies beyond these waters – more effusive than a fisherman’s song, when come evening time they sail back to theirs rocky homes settled at Shannon’s ridges winding like a maggot in a downpour and greener still than eyes of women that bear the same name Wise men of Cuilcagh – the orchard’s guardians they knew the danger, sowing the seeds of forbidden fruits That she will come – an innocent girl Who’d turn her lips and then flow like morning dew into the world of underground streams And when September fog will fall her ghost will rise up through the night and like a sea gull at open sea hanging in midair, once more, she will look into the depths of Lough Allen
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