Mayo, may I place you in context
A bare brown tooth in a vacant grin
Shaped by the savage sea.
Your cliffs carved from the limestone
For the enchantment of Lir.
Air trapped in watery caves
By blustering waves,
Whoofs through bronchial blowholes;
Wafting their grassy verges
Like old men’s moustaches.
Rivers rush the browned rainwater seaward
Searching for the way,
While hills shyly shoulder each other
As if to let a priest pass
At a crowded mass.
Mayo played a sea mist on my face;
An Irish benediction.
My bare feet were washed in rocky pools
And dried by yellowed grass
In the manner of The Magdalene.