On Top of Sliabh Bannion
I can see it now
Through the dismal mist
Pass the sorrowful heather.
With it's impotent beige bloom
Mossy fungal stone
Strangled by ivy contagion.
Up above,
Jackdaws seeking justice
Squabble and shreik.
Each one with a crown of thorns.
I sit,
Beguiled by a simplistic beauty
Under a pitiful April sky.
Forgetting all the constructions of man.
Up here,
The foundations of convictions
Can start to shake.
I could easily slip
Into the rhythms of ancient silent prayers
And sing softly those tragic hymns,
To doleful face cattle
Chewing obediently on everlasting cud.
Copyright © Paul Martin | Year Posted 2017
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