Mac Tíre Deireanach na hÉireann
Aimsíonn na cú é
gar do fuil na gcaorach
ag péinteáil an fhéir.
Tá sé ag siúl go mall i gcruth ocht
agus taispeánann sé a chuid fiacla
agus ní chaitheann sé ach drisíní
agus níl aon chiontacht aige.
Siúlann sé roimh a scáth
le taobh haolchloch agus driseacha
a líneann na cuibhrinn.
Tá a fhios aige trí bholadh
a chríoch. Tá sé ag breathnú
i súil raidhfil
in am geansaithe agus uain,
ar thalamh atá chomh lom go bhfeiceann sé
anois an fharraige níos faide.
Siúlann sé ar luaithreach casarnach
agus diúltaíonn sé, cosúil le ceo, an fál seo.
The Last Wolf of Ireland
The hounds find him
by the sheep’s blood
painting the grass.
He paces in figure eights
and bares his teeth
and wears nothing but burrs
and bears no guilt.
He walks before his shadow
along limestone and briars
that line the paddocks.
He knows by smell
his place. He holds a gaze
with the eye of a rifle
in the time of sweaters and lamb
on land so clear-cut he can see
an ocean rise beyond the plots.
He treads the ash of understory.
He refuses, like fog, this hedge.
A former carpenter, Dan Murphy teaches at Boston University. He recently served as writer-in-residence at Phillips Academy. A past Robert Pinsky Global Fellow and Grace Abernethy Scholar, his poems appear or are forthcoming in Sugar House Review, The Summerset Review, TAB Journal, The Adirondack Review, Slipstream, and elsewhere.
Header photo by Caden Van Cleave, courtesy Pexels.
