Black rams kneel in bouldered vale,
bony spirals bowed, curling
inward, hissing in the gale.
Rain gives shape to wind, hurling
dove-like daggers across Columba’s isle,
slicing through the grass-clad fields,
slashing through serrated piles
of rubble, broken shields,
scourging headstones in their vigil:
crosses, arms upraised, chests bared
as graven spirals drill
into their core. The humus, snared
in weeds, splits and bleeds,
receives the flashing, windborne seed.
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