I have met your kin at Boa Island,
standing like warriors in tall grass,
pitted faces
grey as Ulster
and known a thunderclap of fear
drive down from gut to foot,
rooting me
in charmed ground.
Gran’mere, yours is island ground
beside the churchyard gate,
a public place,
no place for ambush
yet, as I pass with dogs that cringe
and shy away from nameless harm,
the day seems darker,
far less warm.
Richard Fleming
