They are making a new* Éire
generators whirl alternating fields
into current that flow
through the lamps—beams illuminating
corners once left perpetually dark
where muintir na hÉireann once lived,
but recognize no more

…the canals        and the bridges,
the embankments        and cuts
they blasted        and dug with their sweat
and their guts
they never       drank water       but whiskey        by pints
and the shanty towns rang
with        their songs and their fights…

Dirt paths tied over
by an iron road now
over grown, carpeted
with inching moss, or, sunk
into the Tartarus black bog
now paved by asphalt


…they died        in their hundreds
with no signs
to mark where        save the brass
in the pocket
of the en        trepreneur.
by landslide     and rockblast
they got buried        so deep
that in death if not life
they'll have peace        while they sleep…

What will happen to the rolling pastures?:
carpets of moss draping dry-stack
stone walls; live stock grazing freely
on the misted grass.

…for to shift        a few tons
of this earth        ly delight
yes,        to shift
a few tons        of this earth        ly delight…

      Will the rails cut
this Island into an arbitrary grid
following the wave of the industrial
revolution?—Or will the cuts of nature
still stand evermore as the guide—will the road
cut a new line straight through the limestone
at the Gap of Dunloe, or will the pavement
follow the serpentine icemelt remnants
now inundated by the fog-shroud-basin-lakes of Killarney?

…their mark        on this land
is still seen and still laid
the way for commerce        where
vast fortunes were made
the supply of an Empire        where the sun
never set        which is now deep
in darkness, but the railway’s there yet…