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| The ground is swallowing stones in Ireland�s Eye
year by year moss covers the silent mouths of monuments. someone told me the church was knocked down so people wouldn�t go inside and that struck me profoundly. like visiting Shakespeare�s grave or meeting a cancer survivor that men in their right minds would do such a thing. there are doors on the ground in Ireland�s Eye but opening them will only reveal worms, earth, grass and the tired footprints of those who are buried under those monuments deep in yesterday�s woods. none of them lead to Wonderland, though this place could certainly be behind the looking glass, with crumbling ceilings under your feet, withering windows and wooden planks retreating back into themselves, claimed by the revenging woods. In the little graveyard, more consecrated than consecrated ground should be, there was a small headstone almost completely eaten by the earth the words dear mother inscribed on both sides I couldn�t help but read this as a plea. dear mother they are forgetting they are leaving me behind the lights from the houses have gone out there are no more boats on the water dear mother I can�t hear the church bell or the sounds of the men returning home and looking down at this little piece of marble enveloped in curving and curling leaves, I ask myself: Who are we that we should be so bold? |