Tarasaigh
do dh’ Eoghann MacRath (nach maireann)
the fraying loose ends
of glass cloth
dimples from lost
fastenings
extant stitching
so copper holds
delaminating ply
our stainless technology
is fast up
this tidal creek –
no evidence
of propulsion
lichens have a grip
harmonic verdigris
a weft of salt
settled in
terrain
like feannagan*
but songs have gone
from Tarasaigh
unless we sing them now
* lazy beds
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