There is always a wind
one or other of the four winds blowing
moaning with the loneliness of the place
soft ground tough grass and hard sheep.

Ghosts of silent footed rebels tramping to the
safety of their mountain valley holds
before the Military.
The wind still carries their shouts

their cries their pleadings and their hopes
mixing with the bleak empty sounds of this place
a trickle of water on stone
a gurgle of water on wet black turf

Is that the thin echo of a sleán slicing sods,
or that heavy hollow sound, the turf-cutter’s
clunkin’ bottle of sweet milky tea
corked with a scruntch of newspaper

Or a bit of broken fence banging in the wind

Martin Swords
May 2009