Three ancient sycamores grace the churchyard
at Kilmalkaldeer. In May, two huddle
like spinster sisters, barren arms empty save
the tight buds they clasp shut against the sea wind.
The third, which grows in the lee of the church,
dances in a shimmering, emerald green,
throws yellow blossoms from her shoulders.
Come autumn, blazing leaves will gild those trusted walls.