The Island

Their cabins lay deserted
gulls spin overhead
their turf roofs survive,
the wind whistles through the stone walls.
 
Fishing boats decay
above arcing waves,
along the crumbling cliffs
no harvest of birds,
no men climbing rocks
as the wind whistles over the stone walls.
 
Wrapped close in her shawl
she battles out storms
she gathers tossed seaweed
on the opaque sand
while the wind whistles between stone walls.
 
Guillemot and gull
gannet and puffin
over razor cliffs he scales,
she ran when he fell
caught by the keening wind, the stone walls.
 
No turf for the boiling,
the bog’s spent, drained
its trees long cut
there are bones in the hearth,
the weeping wind whistles through stone walls.
 

Carolyn O’Connell

published in Ormond Poetry Group Anthology 2011