Dar Óma
we walk the roads together
in the west of Ireland
Atlantic thoughts drowning our footfall

an otter
looks at us from a river
as though we were human

You relish the smell of turf-smoke
incensing sheep skulls

clouds borrow patterns
from fading Gaelic manuscripts

I pick forgotten fuchsia
fix it in Your hair

music wafts from a pub
distraught tin whistles

a crow alights awkwardly
on dishevelled thatch

I press Your invisible hand