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Poem	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?'
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