Dunquin
Dingle Peninsula, Ireland
Little stone domes
no matrix, no glue,
monk-built, by crevice
and heft, taut little
sheep fold, where men sat
in their sheep clothes,
with wooly tongues,
holding the world up
under stones stacked
to keep the drizzle out;
grizzled, they fingered
their beads, eyeing
sea glint and flock,
hands on rock, feet on
grass, bee buzz hum
on their lips, mind on
mercy, on God like
wind seen in what
it bends, what will lift.
