cross the Eskamucky Gap
with casks of butter,

—–sacks of potatoes and mangolds
—–slung over their jennets’ backs.

Through Ullauns Wood
and across the river, they follow

—–the red sandstone road to Kenmare,
—–ready to haggle for every farthing.

The townspeople wonder
what keeps them up in the Glens,

—–where no whitewash brightens
—–their cabins, no slate shields them

from rain, no windows
shed light on children’s faces.

—–Their families wield spades
—–in wide ridges, snare rabbits

and hares, glean acorns
and beech mast for winter.

—–There’s talk of the blight that rots
—–crops of potatoes overnight

but the women from Crinnagh,
sovereign as eagles,

—–load up their flour and oats
—–and lead their jennets home.

 

*
From Magma 89, Grassroots 

 

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