Where Heather Remembers
Where heather hums in Atlantic rain,
old stones remember names;
the wind through gorse like whispered pain
keens low the exile’s flames.
A curlew cries above the bog,
its call a silver thread;
it stitches sky to sodden fog
where silent feet have bled.
O Sídhe stir beneath the hill,
in twilight’s hollow breath;
their music bends the human will
to dance with time and death.
Yet green endures through grief and
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