-for Heaney and the Peace Bridge

Grey and greying sky
reflected in choppy body,
as our matching heron
performs his balancing act for all to see.

The Donegal hills, patient, waiting; barren,
call a siren song,
lost and piercing- on the wind.
Ours is a past seeped in rust.
A history bathed in thick, black squelch;
M U D L A R K I N G, always, for our sense of self.
Waiting for that ancient bogland to spit and spew and remould
our memory of last Winter, in all its terrifying beauty. 

The years that have passed
are like a body now lost
to the sea: already long gone
many moons before that dark body of water
swallowed it up
-claiming-maiming; tossed
-out and in along a coastline
that will not claim ownership, in the harsh grey spell of morning. 

Things hidden under the surface that cannot
Memories that are washed up all along the tideline- obscuring the
not yet solid; the future not yet in seed.

I gather spat up objects, broken things and leftover parts of the storm
and begin to see them, clearly, in all that fragile, unstoppable beauty;
under a thundering, Island-Thick sky. 

By Kerri ní Dochartaigh

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