Keepers of the Lough
Our approach through copse
is shrouded in mist, cold,
interminable loanens that confuse,
each resembling every other backroad.
That Sunday morning stillness.
Chill across the lough.
Sharpness. Clarity. Brightness.
Ferryboat moving as lightly as a corrach.
Mumblings as beads clack.
Bells echo off cornflower sky.
The blackrobed one’s tsk
as we refuse to enter his church, go our own way.
Bare feet circling stones,
polished by the rub of generations.
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