Sunday, January 11, 2015


Storm Harmonica

On the wet side of the mountain,
Grey listless Leitiraghtran;
Where strangers came and went,
Their energies entirely spent,
By Atlantic gale
And crumbling shale.

There in a high hollow lies,
A broken refuge from the skies;
Where a crofter’s walls still stood,
Long bereft of peat and wood,
Enclosed by a picket of battered sod,
And wind-strung granite rod.

A palisade of grief surrounds,
When the storm harmonica sounds;
Keening a base reluctant tune,
For eternity’s deaf and lifeless ruin:
You want to touch, to pinch, to squeeze

To change the pitch, and give some ease.

©R. Derham 2015

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