the gorse and tough grass
on a mountain top.
a wind swept bog
at the edge of the earth.
silhouettes move slowly
leaping tuft to tuft,
avoiding the dark
still watery deep.
we were always told
to steer clear of the holes,
where pickled remains
of leathery Celts
lay waiting for hapless
travellers to stumble
and sink to the bottom-
less, peaty fold.
but tonight it's okay,
they move with such ease
in a barrow full laden
in the faintest of breeze ...