Seen from the kitchen window
a distant line of black plastic swaddling
sods of turf; billowing in the wind
illuminated by the glint of sun, makes them look
like carriages of a distant train hurtling past.
But it is just bog going nowhere. Away
near the skyline a new hotel is lit up like a tableau,
its arc lamps lighting the sky for miles.
They burn all night in a bright advertisement
for this hotel and golf links out here
in the middle of nowhere.
Who are they telling, or is it just whistling
in the dark for consolation? Night here is so black
that stars blaze and if you turn your back
on the hotels’ harsh light you could be anywhere,
just another speck amid constellations
that burned up years ago, like we here below
are firing the last of turf
that took thousands of years
to grow, we scavenge desperate;y
like fossickers gleaning gold.
At night down in the dark field a red glow,
that could be a coloured firefly
if such a thing were so, or red eye of fox,
but no, it is the light of a battery powering up
the electric fence that keeps us all in our place.