Up above the broad lough,

On the sharpened blade of rock,
That gives way to nothingness

A widow threw arms around heaven,

And cursed God.

Volatile elements conspired

To split open the sky,

And, even this late in the day,

Light and warmth fell through on her,
Laid hands on her

The colour and comfort of tea.

On that unlikely stage of Whins,

Hurting inexplicably gave way to being.

Going on became viable - 

Maybe even blessed.

The wind hurried back over Donegal,

Frowning the water in its wake,
Swarming up the limestone

Anxious to end such foolishness

With a slap in the face.
But the purchase of grief,
So reliably set,
Had been planed away.
The sailing air,
Having nothing now to detain it,
Sailed on by.