Knew you'd miss me. We've been away up a mountain near Cork- rather uncharacteristic- for a whole week with limited supplies. Wrote a couple of unwrought poems. This one describes an attempted escape.

Walking Down a Hill To A Place We Can't Pronounce

When I was younger

I would walk days and days

To places I didn't know

Just to do it

Now I am older

I prefer to pause

And watch cows in a field

Doing cow things

But we set out to walk down to the village we could not pronounce

For wine, bread and beer

There was a pub

An hour she said- confident

We past occasional bungalows like temples high up

Stripped and plain and workmanlike

We plodded down woodland track

Noting bits of rubbish for guidance

We passed abandoned houses full of bees and barking dogs

Others just seemed unfinished

They'd lost interest, with wiring hanging out

And unfinished porches

Then we turned to the speed of the road

Tiring watchful of something unknown called traffic

Here men stood on porches

And made big porticos and lawns

Our end was a crossroads and a pub

And shops which were shut on account of eccentricity

Our limbs were stiff as we sampled our wallets

For meagre funds

We had two and a little more 

The barman told us of the civilization here

back before the temples, back to mounds

Of recent history he was less sure, for all is change and no buttery anymore.