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