BRENDAN RYAN

Cruach Mharthain

A low dry stone wall, wild hedgerow
of fuschia. A gravel lane rising
skywards to a galvanised farm gate.
Local farmers ease their quad bikes up
towards rams and wethers. A woman
wearing a scarf walks behind the sheep,
avoids my face in the rented window.

An old Bog road skirts the upper reaches.
No trees, only purple heather, furze, marshy
peat ditches. Water drips into turf,
collects in ruts and depressions. A standing stone,
scattering of limestone rocks.
The sloping ridge line I wake against.

Each day is a reading of cloud.
Like a bad argument slowly advancing
mist descends the ridge, cushioning
its form, its contours, its crumbling stone walls.
Cloud creeps into falling dampness.
Empty holiday houses appear then disappear,
fog turning solid into rain.

A wave reluctant to break
the low-slung mountain stories rise against.
On a clear day, the ridge line is a walk
into the sky, a sightline memory resurrects,
preserves. The mountain has its own language.

 

 

 

An old

 

 

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