Cahirballykinvarga

goat gods atop remote rocks

this is your village now

 

ghostsmoke from turf fires blows

down the taciturn farmer’s

 

chimney, choking his dream

the moss is ochre, the May grass

 

green enough to make eyes ache

even your horns’ arc hurts

 

leaves of blooming hawthorn hush

children who haunt this ruin, running

 

the rain-slick chevaux-de-frise

laughter spilled over tumbledown karst

 

what good is the past to goats, to

men who don’t last, whose lust

 

wasn’t enough, whose walls fall 

from wind and wind plus time