By Big Rocks
The buzzard perched on a utility pole
in the hills above Goodwick.
We whir underneath, in the van
through all these steep
and glorious fields.
Explosions of rocks jut out
and hide the waiting sea,
the ferry on its way to Ireland.
Somewhere here, is an Iron age fort,
but we can’t find a sign of it;
not a stone among the brambles.
Clusters of gorse hold tight
in the smacks of wind, as do
the utility poles; their shaking cables
going on and on, dicing the sky
that is speckless
except for a buzzard