The Hermit of Moher
A seagull glides overhead, a hungry ghost between worlds,
She drops something stone-like into the lochén – a pebble from Malahide perhaps?
A childs soul, lost in the shadows since the famine, finally returning home.
I am a hermit. God knows, I ring the bells at first light and flocks of seagulls bark at me from the cliffs of Moher; they steal away, over the blood shot…