Late Capitalism comes to the remote West Coast of Ireland

From here stones were drawn
for the ruin in the distance,
stones for walls fallen
and falling, for cottages

empty and roofless
along this road,
for fences holding

the gate to the lane.
Cattle and sheep graze
its brink as they grazed

the centuries gutted.
But now comes by night
—who used to steal slate—

the man in new guise.
Dead cars and garbage
—what costs to dispose of—

are what he brings back here,
signs of abundance,
the colorful tumble of

rubbish down scree of
black-grey. Will earth here
as sea has, as history

has, develop a taste
for, develop a stomach
to take it and eat it
digesting even its name ?