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.