Author Archives: emilybury

Innishmore May 22, 2013

The dry stone walls

Trim the crests of the hills like black lace

The wind passes through church ruins

Like a dead man’s breath through a flute

The wool on your back

Scratches your skin like a father’s whiskery kiss.

In this place

Life is not a game of politics or dreams

Life is a thing you scrape from the land.