Winter brims <br />over bouldered ground <br />Above Rostrevor. <br />Scolding crows strut <br />awkwardly over hardened <br />ruts of mud, muttering <br />throaty discontent. <br /> <br />Louring skies meld <br />blue lough to green forest. <br />Needling wind keens <br />through raftered bones, <br />once homes, <br />hewn from ancient granite. <br /> <br />Mourne claims her own, <br />over and over, <br />defeating generations. <br /> <br />Hasp and staple, <br />galvanised against the sleekit mist, <br />defend rude-lintelled doors. <br /> <br />Who comes? <br /> <br />Only ghosts of emigrants, <br />wraiths of mountainy men <br />whose quick selves <br />coaxed poor life <br />from these pale, barren hills <br />above Rostrevor.<br /><br />James Mills<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/above-rostrevor/
