A place so alive in its own loneliness. Alive with <br />Big bleak rocks that stare awkwardly as suspended <br />Erratics alone on hills or as clusters in dead fields. <br />Or perhaps alive with the awe of countless sheep <br />Grazing, ignorant to the world. Blessed. <br /> <br />Land so poor it engulfs all life before it. <br />All that can be heard in the dead of night rugged <br />Is the deafening sound of blackness <br />And a million starving souls, <br />Disturbingly pushing up food <br />For as many uninterested sheep, eternally. <br /> <br />Yet Connemara’s darkness is solitude is beauty. <br />Even when cold mist lies low on the sorry fields, <br />Even when the rain pounds hard on the weary earth.<br /><br />Seán O Muiríosa<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/darkness-of-the-west/
