We took our rest beneath the Milky Way
clear far yet near and cool,
told tales of earthy Irish things
and old-folk we had known.
In mossy woods the tracks were lined
with butter-coloured chanterelles fluted like Mahler’s singing earth
and ready for our gathering.
We climbed to where the mountain waters flowed
spreading a thin veil on sculpted rock
yet islanded midstream a tiny fir stood firm
with tormentil and melancholy thistle.
Swallows settled on the pylon wires
or swooped, escaped above us.
A robin sat to pass the damp of evening
as fallen branches were cut up for fuel.
Then we lit the fire and talked a while
and fended off our sad presentiments.
We wanted to be warm and quiet and glad
to stay amid the waterfalling round us.
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