The field at Ballaghboy
Monday, February 23, 2009 at 04:18AM Before the track makes Dursey
You find a tidy green field, upland against rocks,
Cambered to catch the slanting sun
Where straggling, dirty sheep drift, disorderly,
Distant at the edge of the gale
Like foam at the top of the strand,
Straining headstrong across the long curving combed mounds
Where the fevered tubers caught the rot.
This neat, sad, loyal tending
Even the grinding salty air does not kill.

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