If you come by the road that cuts through the horse farms
Stonewall, Chanteclaire, Vinegar Hill—
A running stitch of rock fences hemming raw edges
Spires and steeples on one side, brown stubble and stalk, the other—
On both sides: bluegrass bluebloods, enduring as trees.
If you come as the crow flies over a quilt, shades of motherland green
Darby, Shadow Lane, Waterford Stud—
(those stitches, standing witness to Famine survival)
Acknowledge their stillness, patient as statues
Long-suffering sentinels, dark in the rain.
–Rebecca Luttrell Briley
16 October 2014
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