Aine MacAodha Poetry & links

Rain takes on a silver sheen

thundering past the window,

encouraging the worm to rise.

Already the blackbird furrows

with his yellow beak, knowing

what lies beneath.

I think of pre-historic societies

leaving their stamp on the land in

stone circles, megalithic tombs,

standing stones and raths.

I imagine they were signposts

pointing the safest way ahead

to the nearest village; gathering

points, perhaps. Their own

creations dotted about

the landscape.

I feel a

certain kinship with them—those

who came before.

The worm: I wonder what its

aura holds? What has it come upon

whilst pushing clay,

slipping into worlds unseen?

I wish the rain to cease,

the blackbird to scarper

and the worm to live another day.