if this had been shallow

sandy land near to the

sea or river meadow

meandering seaward

then I would have been

blinded by soil and dust

set free by this wind storm

but walking as I was along

the bog black certainty of

Mayo grounded in a thousand

years of rain and rotting trees

only wisps of water flew up

and twirled before my eyes

dancing in a jig jag swirl

before landing on my trousered

boots as spume a million miles

from sea O what a day it was

when faint hearts by the hearths

ne'er strayed and madmen screamed

and whimpered in their cells dying

to be set free to fly with the geese

returning to the arctic wilds as spring

hit our shores and black brown loughs

like the hair of Deirdre blowing forth

blowing back in this relentless

Atlantic fury I called her to my

side for company as we set up on

the mountain in faith that somewhere

in a cwm or crannóg our sheep would

resting be merged into the bleak

black granite as she and me walked

out to seek our future and our wealth

upon this meagre ground where God

and Cromwell left us and no-one

can now take from us, old Deirdre

and me