The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Brigit Truex

Poulnabrone

Ancient beyond knowing, hands lifted the layered stones from  
moon-dark earth, charred with blood, rained with tears to a terrible
beauteous shade below the swirling tracery of planets and stars.

Mourners' cries were caught in the wave's curl, the wind-harp
of a reed that echoes at mid-dark.  They sought consolation from stone
as they raised the limestone slabs, straight as backs, straining beneath

the immeasurable weight of loss. Hands lifted the singular capstone,
angled it, stark and ageless—a grey wing raised against the aged sky.
Silent, they built the tomb, the gaping maw, to cup the whole of their grief.