Slemish

The hill of Slemish wraps herself beneath
Green blankets, wool of living sheep, and time.
A million Irish evenings sink their teeth
Into her weary, mute, volcanic grime;
But she will stoutly take a million more,
Not as a conqueror, but one who’s done
The most she could and takes a nap before
Her pint of Beamish with the morning sun.
For Ireland wears suffering like a well-
Worn t-shirt, and the scars are covered in
Green blankets, matty wool, and time, and tell
Of beauty running deeply as the sin.
“Come rest,” she says, “for beds are for the clever.
The fight goes on, but beer won’t last forever.”