They Speak Irish
They Speak Irish
On Inis Oirr, smallest of three Arans,
we give over our Euros
for a carriage ride ’round the isle
Horse clops ring on the rocky
road, past thatched
roofs in a town
little changed in five centuries
Past the cemetery where headstones
pronounce the dead in Gaelic
Of course there are sheep,
there are always sheep,
fleeces marked in neon
Here bygone mixes—if uneasily—
with modern; tourists
now the primary trade
We ride out to a ship foundered on rocks
decades before, its rusted hulk
reminder of the sea’s treacheries
Ireland’s west coast
remains ancient land
—a place out of time