ix: StAnza Presents…
Éadaoín Lynch Boireann Exposed as the crown of a balding head, The Burren persists. Its great stage Has seen more aging than this— Mollusc and ammonite riveted In its face as fossils. Your feet are On an ocean floor carved up by Glacial ice, but this rock sinks So deep no water can follow; Archives of abandoned living. Wind covers the Burren with its breath And on rare days, it lifts.
Trees don’t thrive in six inches of topsoil,
On rare days, it lifts. Like a pause
The westerly gales make sure of that.
In music, a note suspended between
But, when trees do grow—
One bow stroke and the next.
Whittled thickets and hollowed crowns Bent double on ancient stone, parallel To earth. As if they do not age, They simply lean further And further down. Locals say They shelter fairy folk. We hear Their laughter when we play a jig. Our rhythm is a dance Through the branches.
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