Anam Cara

THE STILLNESS ABOVE IS LISTENING

Rooted in the quiet earth beneath

Which enjoys the quiver as harebells

Relinquish perfect scoops of breeze

Absorbs the syllables when rain lowers

Its silver chorus to coalesce

With granite rocks terse with thirst

And tight with the force of unfreed voice

Feels the moon on its fields brightening

The length of night out into the nowhere

That would love a name like Conamara

The mountain remains a temple of listening

Over years its contours concede to the lonesome

Voices brittle with the threat of what is gathering

Towards their definite houses below

Harvesting the fragments of sound

Into its weight of stillness.