Pilgrimage
We pass a solitary car
Parked in discreet confinement
I glance at white in the window,
a scramble, a furtive toss of hair
We follow the dirt track around
A tunnel surrounded by rocks
White tufted barbed wire shaking
in the summit's dangerous wind
Gorse everywhere, but the clouds
slide past, covering approaches
Darkening opportunities
We slide down Croagh Patrick on our bums