Sweet Ireland.
Sweeping hills and rocky stones…
How rugged wild you are today.
No wind..no breeze no shooting stars
..no priests at all,
Just musty bog peat in the air….
Grey patchwork sky
and standing stones remain
when not removed
by farmers for their walls
and gates.
The trees are gone.
The wind, the seas and man
Have torn them down.
The Bishops burn in burning hell.
They’ve been exposed.
And we may breath again.
KB… sept 2018