As I look out from the Warren hill 
my eyes are drawn from Galtee More 
towards that graveyard by the old school 
where you lie, your house of clay. 
Your spirit strays about the farm 
visiting vacant shelters. 

You take my hand, 
lead me out to the henhouse. 
An old one scratches your face 
as you extract the eggs. 
"Cross hen," you say 
and I am stilled in my city fear, 
forget to dance in my new, red shoes. 

Then we visit the cart pony. 
You pat him down. He snorts. 
"Poor old thing," you say. 
F lies clamber over his festering eyes. 
We watch him chomp the thistled hay 
with blunted, yellowed teeth, 
no intruders welcome. 

At night you let me comb out 
your braided, iron hair. 
A stunning silver glint traps my eye. 
Before you died you said 
you had to travel the long road 
and would not stay.