At Lough Hyne
A gale that slaps cheeks, gloved
In a hubbub of skewer-sharp memory.
Deep down, the winding road
whooshes with hope, en route to Kerry.
We've climbed here before, rained on
And knee-ached by a clamber that lifts
Trees sunk in the welcome of mud
And the grey knowledge of years.
They'd hold mass there, by that cross:
Away from the Brits' scorn and fury,
Away from the dire predictions
Of the internecine and the ignorant.
And three men will die.
The lake is freshwatered, clear,
Green-blue mirror of years sat
Waiting in ideals and excuses,
Godded-over by foreign uniforms.
It's exquisite, tourist-trapping
And it knows, fully, its seductive powers,
Ready, always, to return any
Of us to our ancestors if we're slow
Or if we're careless. But it's not
Malevolent, just disinterested,
Impartial and willing to extend
Its embrace to any of us.
And three men will die.
The Cork skies throw a black blanket
Over our panting efforts
And the climb gets harder:
A hill, not a mountain and yet...
You turn and whisper something
In Irish and I'm reminded of kids
Climbing the stairs at home:
'a haon, a dó, a trí...'
It's coffin-cold now, fierce cold altogether
And the wind has started its sharp
Spit again. We know it, we all know it:
Three men- triúr fear- will die.