I can't see beyond the hill,
nor do I need to, because
the grass is no greener, and
besides, it's those far away
cows came up with that one.

I can see the wind, shaking
everything, except the mist,
which stands its ground,
despite a long queue of it
right out to the horizon.

It's a day for ducks and sails
and turf fires semaphoring
inky blue smoke which looks
like graffiti against the low
white marshy mono cloud.

I'm at Belgooley, a birdcall
from Kinsale where the
Wild Atlantic Way begins,
(or ends), pending on whether
you're from Cork or Donegal.