Linne Foirthe

If the rocks were to sing in two part harmony,

The wind would be strong enough to carry them both.

And while the mountain sounds

Were to be painted

In golden sunsets, it was the dew

That stained the stone.

The emerald city of moss amalgamating

Between the backbone,

Left a crippling voice that never leaves

The tip of my tongue.

You see, the wind was searching

For ecstasy while drowning in low pressure tides,

And found it in the hiccupped dreams

Of the lonely beach’s shorelines.

For each small grain of wilting sand

That tumbles to bay and arm,

Hasty, they hum in unison with

As many breaths as stars,

Succumbing to the melody

That makes them what they are.