The ruined cottage
lingers in the field.
Its idle chimney
mourns a turf-fed fire
that starved to death
when broken faces,
round the hearth,
laid down the sleán and left,
taking risks of promise
and the ache of going,
leaving the gape of a doorway
to welcome wind
and emerald moss.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
9 December 2025
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