This dark corridor, that starless night,
those faces made bizarre by a hunger I can’t abate.
Strange clattering and bangs
-Suggestions of a likening, or at least some quickening
in this slow march, slow movement through the days.
Signals, I think – or hope – of a changing.
‘Or perhaps not’, whispers the stone.
That cold stone – that granite,
leaning above you
like a sentinel frozen and solid.
Cold, cold, cold
– where once I ran
Through heather and bog,
Legs slashed by sharper twigs
Fingers and lips stained
(scratches ignored, as plump and juicy they called to us from the ditches).
The run up the hill – always with the wind at my back, or blessedly in my face,
Until we reached the height- the summit
– where all below us was all before us
And here the sun had warmed
the cold, cold rock of Wicklow,
so I would lie panting like a young pup
against the stone,
as I looked down over rolling hills,
waiting for you
to come smiling over the brow.