Ulva off Mull
Turning with a gristle snarl
to a world of charcoal totems
barely holding against a sneeze,
leaves one unfated
Praying to understand
those crashing words and sung notes
that once lapped the craggy shores,
now littering some isle in memory.
Descendants, dumb and despondent:
the voice of an ancestor brings ’em
what warning or blessing but a shrug,
Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam.*
What is the way back
to a land pleased to be seen?
Are there hills in Heaven
like these so Green?
Conor Ross
* May his faithful soul be at the right hand of God.
Either/Or
Chatter as you like about our towers & tramways:
you can admire a spider’s web
because you are not a fly.
Chatter as you like about the nobility of nature:
you can admire a spider’s web
because you are not a fly.
Conor Ross