Late winter in Wicklow
is about light.
Sunlight through the clouds makes godbeams—
spotlights the deer on open ground below
turns the river’s meander a blazing silver.
Across the valley faint etchings outline fields long since forgotten.
The land remembers: failed crops now a faded nap of lazy beds;
the search for lead a tumbled pile of scree.

Wicklow in winter
is about quiet.
The hills hold themselves silent.
No breath of wind, no plaintive distant sheep.
Drifting up the valley, the solitary raven sounds no crawk—
a tattered piece of soot floating in a plume of silent air.

Wicklow, this winter
is about snow.
Pockets and drifts nestle in the lee of hunkered granite—
boulders so solid, certain, belying contorted schist below.
In the fractured bog each black drain
carries its own bright burden of still-white snow,
amber grasses above reach to a new blue sky.

A cold day in Wicklow
is about you.
You’re dying now, you want to leave.
I walk the Wicklow hills.
The plish and suck of wet ground—
it holds me, it lets me go.

I’ll let you go