They love it, love Mac Cumhaill’s face’s
craggy slopes, these pastel walls
and moss-blest grey slate roofs.
They love to nestle snug against
the wilder greens, the rougher greys
(his weathered skin, in truth).
They laugh their warmth ‘gin morning chill,
‘gin soggy clouds the cobalt sky
reminding who is king.
Black iron curls hold oval clay,
mosaic tiles in it inlaid
of brightest brown and blue.
I would forgive, should you forget:
though art, this lovely chair is naught
but sand, and fire, and ore.