The wild circle at Bohonagh, mixed with a certain amount of despair about the future:
Did I hear you whistle, or was it the breeze
blowing through grey lips pursed with nettles? Listen.
Four shrieking blasts and no more; “I am the life.”
Where did I hear that before? In a bellows,
keeping heat to the forge. A false wind perhaps,
to warm your fat cattle for the equinox.
Or were you just their scratching post?
(My apologies, but the last few lines of the poem were bugging me so much I just cut them. Surgery.)
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