I go to Doon Lough
and wait for my head to clear. I plank out
my legs—revel in some sweet doom metal sounds.
An archaeologist informs me last week
they found the oldest known remains
in Leitrim, in a cave, south of Fawnary Hill.
Strange score of young boy’s shards
paused in process through time for their return.
Carried to dark mouth, left in dry vessel
for his flesh to fray like bark from his white bones.
They left him there—mysterious misfortune
never brought to his final place.
Instead, he dissolved and trickled down with the stones.
He might be a man now feeding the wild and regulated.
From here to the water, he is the sedge fly breathing ripples.
He is protector of Doon Lough. He is the presence that consoles.