Inertia Kills

Stupidly, I left my pack along with the flashlight and Cliff Bars back at the B&B in Galway. It was getting dark. I’d spent nearly the entire day hiking around the perimeter of Inishmore, the largest of the Aran Islands. I found myself perched hundreds of feet above the crashing waves of the Atlantic with only grazing cows for company and the grass beneath my feet for my bed. I thought it’d be fun; after all, it wasn’t very cold during the day. Damn was I mistaken. It’s fun to talk about it now, but this was not a fun night. Barely slept a wink.

Anyway, on the bus ride from Galway to Dublin, I was inspired to write a little verse based on my experience, preparing for my Shakespeare unit at school, I opted to write a sonnet in pentameter. In the end, I know I’m no poet, but sometimes I like to pretend.

A Night On Inishmore

Dun Aengus, Black Fort, time’s not forgotten,
Grey stones hand-laid, bring forth the isle’s steward.
Do as fathers’ fathers’ twice begotten.
Leaves of grass, the succor sprawls ‘cross the yard.
Fruit of the vine for bovine and equine,
Graze along shores; seas bespeckled with skiffs,
Incantations to ichthean divine.
Wing’d denizens soar Acropolian cliffs.
Perched on a shelf, I face mortality.
To toe that perilous line of demise;
To stir the cauldron of vitality.
Errant Aran past cedes to shutt’ring eyes.
I shiver ‘gainst the tempestial air;
Leo stalks round his celestial lair.

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