sacred space

(Kaats Strand Wexford)

The tall tree canopies

Point to the eyes of heaven

The magic smell of the mould

And rotten leaves

Spread their fragrance

All around

The clear skies

Are punctured

By busy crows

Crawing their way

Furiously building their nests

Choral chanting

Fills the skies

As the crows create

Their sacred space

Waiting for

Impending life

To emerge