Mountain goats, on the bowler hat of Mount Leinster, we stand after a blustery hour of climb, unhooked by a languishing telegraph criss-cross of dimpled dusky looking down, the glacial glow of glassy Leinster valley below, to the patchwork quilt bed-spread of Delux light yellow feeder towns.
To the crunch down in a fading light and the Padre’s broken brake light, slowly caressing the anted landscape out, to the fire and cold gallowglasses of my pint:
My brother holds up a mirror and I, my telegraphed cross, to an evening snake of peat bog smoke I smell, but can’t place, in the bitter mountain cold.