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.
Copyright © Leslie Philibert | Year Posted 2015
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