BAILE AN GHOILIN / BURNHAM EAST
Ger Duffy
town of the fork/Burnham – a yeoman
Turn right at the fork, seven starlings ogham
a wire, loosestrife/montbretia/ragwort/fuchsia
thistle/dog roses – a rat dashes in front of you. Trees
sway with psithurism – so loud you think someone
is banging a bodhran behind you. Through the school
window – a statue of the Virgin, curved rail of a bunkbed.
Across the bay, Dingle, unfathomable in mist.
The black dog you walk lunges at walkers, cowers
at sheep. Go uphill, past fleece-heaped gates,
vacant land with small upright stones – famine burials.
That farmer, who tears up the lane in his quad
turns his back to you. From the barn, a chorus of whines
and yelps, you stop, more whines and yelps. At the graveyard,
Siobhan Ni Chlerigh, age 25, hunger strike, 1926.
Turn back at the yellow sign where the lane ends,
past drooping bushes, where berries hang like bloody
clots festooned with bluebottles. Watch the scalloped
shore of Ventry Bay, where headless corpses were laid,
when corpses were plentiful here. Cows stare back
from the shelter of a derelict cottage, rain sweeps
across the bay like an old grey shawl.