circumvents the main road
and gathers a cluster of ruins
around the leaning tower of Kilmacduagh.
Best to arrive at dusk
when each fallen corner of the church,
the stables, the cottage
colour black shapes into the pink sky.
Dogs from the farm next door
bark and run and spur ruffled horses
to whinny, trot and sniff outstretched hands.
Suspended ten feet from the ground
is a gap in the tower –
the front door.
All year round it is exposed
but closed to all
who do not know how to enter.
PBS Student Poetry Competition runner-up, March 2014. Read it in the collected anthology here.