Bridge of Tears

By | 12 May 2004

The old language, cut into the stone block
like an epitaph, marks a bridge in the middle
of nowhere. The stream it fords is far too small
to carry a name and the stonework slung over it
looks out of place. Beneath it is a scar
excised by the trickling waters, a deep gully
in the bog, a valley's parting.

The rock commemorates the thousands who left
taking the long cut out for Glasgow, England,
the States; where both sides turned their backs
and parted; became dead to oneanother.
The valley recalls it in the spring melt-water's rush,
the sluice of juice where the sl?©an struck; the blood,
the scar and the healing

standing like a plea in the last letter home:
come meet me here at Drochead na nDeor
and walk with me again.

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