April opens to sheep shorn moorland,
the munch of their black muzzles
and their yellow-jellied eyes
her only companions on the trackways
crusted with oak and bog heather.
She moves step by step
and begins to climb.
The flanks of the crowning mountain
carry her through mist, into the softening of time,
lifting her towards deep quiet.
She sleeps in hostels, bare, pre-season bunk houses
pot noodles the single item available.
Delicious—she is sore, tired, happy. Alone.
Her skin is spring kissed,
her heart is wondering. They meet as planned,
somewhere in Kerry.
In an empty hotel bar, they have Guinness and crisps.
Fat, cream topped black, sliding the salty crunch
down the back of their silent throats.
C.Ryan©