In the abyss of distance. You see it
blink at you, graven over
our breakfast table, from the open
door where steam from porridge mists
the peak of the holy mountain, or so
they term it, and I would not lightly
be heavy-handed over the old
volcanic cone across that yawn
of bog-blossom, of bee-, of heat-filled
emptiness, with sparse birds, and light
hazed into dust. Once, Queen Grace
O’Malley, of Clare Island, ‘mighty
by land and sea’ (you read it in the tiny
ruined church, country Latin and
especially, lettering), gazed at the same
giant summer expanses, giant
and luminous over the tidal flow, she too
thought the Saint’s mountain holy, but
now is dust, as which of us
will not be, you see it blink at you.
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