Endured the wealds of Donegal
Was quite short, would always go on and on
About sea levels, altered migrations,
The disenchantment of her trees.
Today, her heart will absorb the dark spill
In the concavity of the man’s chest
Whose first thought, after surgery
Will be a green campaign slogan
Followed by a childlike urge
To climb things.
First published in the September 2012 issue of The Speculative Edge.