Consider this old mole-hill.
A broad-handed man has gone to earth,
heaping up this tribute to himself.

He would not go down to the long halls
of his laconic ancestors,
leaving no name behind,

but a hard word in a dead tongue
disturbs no mothers' sleep,
though once it fell like a hawk's shadow

on pigeons at their prayers,
widening children's eyes,
drying the old men's mouths.

Clouds massing on North Barrule.
A view of the indifferent sea.
A hawthorn slow-dancing with the wind.

David Callin

If you have any comments on this poem, David Callin  would be pleased to hear them.