Eidirsgan

Christian churches, already old, sit on top of Ireland’s landscapes like recent arrivals. Older shapes, shadow shapes, lie beneath them, half hidden. Burial mounds and standing stones like sleeping giants and cracked teeth. Ancient whale-like hides and boats and boughs. Behind the ivory-covered, Celtic crosses loom ring forts and stone cells. Atlas waves drown out the priests. Banshee winds catcall the choirs. The sooty dark smothers the candle light, and the moss grows over every year like an alibi covering up a shameful crime.

Ireland