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.
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