Damage: A Conamara Cacophony

These stones in the wild


hold winter inside.


Their bleak quiet


unnerves the varicose bog.


Their rough faces


puncture light.


The wrestle


of aggressive grass


cuts windsong to gibberish.


The pools of bog


have tongues


that can lick


iron to nothing.


Now and then,


a raven


lines the air


with a black antiphon.

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