Lettermullen Widow

Her silhouette against the sky Was a lonely crouching figure. Her body bent by the hardships of a life of endless rigor. Walking past she pats her cows the two who have done her good. Once her body was thus she thought like rock on which she stood. And as she plods along alone in the failing light I see her skirts are blown about her legs by the wind from her mother, the sea. The sea that captured her girlish mind he always claimed it a plan. The sea that still stirred up her bones. That same sea took her man. And as she turns and heads for home to her lonely house on the hill. She leaves the night to squalking gulls. She leaves me deathly still.