Enniscorthy Guardian - - NEWS - by Ruth Tim­mins

Cooked trees in the air Bat­tle through a ditch, Knot­ted up like hair In chok­ing ivy stitch. Horse’s oak wood eyes, The cor­ner of stone shed; Flashes hot breath why’s At the rug I call my bed. Leave her to her toss­ing, Peel a soft­en­ing ap­ple, Feed her part not rot­ten – We’re pa­trons in a chapel. Fris­bee stars reach in, As lonely sky is low­ered, Keeps us free from sin: Our skel­lig shanty pow­ered.

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