I am a strange kind of temple
to stand in these fields,
alive and naked, a lark tripping
into the mouth of a mine,
blinded by her own
lovely color.

Believe me, I am burning to the dirt
with your match
gripped like this whirly-bird in my hand.

You are not the first
to trumpet your return
like a lost soldier coming home.
The blood on the stone
is no disguise.
This sip of water, no ocean.

We talk of tractors and implements,
the prized lamb of the Donnegals.
We shield our eyes from scrutiny.

The sun lifts up.
The till and the oxen heave
under its peril.
What has happened in this field
is buried, you understand.