I bhfad an lae ghairid bhí gor á dhéanamh
ag an drochaimsir, agus an mhuir, chomh teimhleach
faoin ngruaim le miotal buailte, ag seoladh
ráth muiríní i dtreo an chladaigh.
Tá an dúlra cóirithe i raithín an gheimhridh:
brosna is aiteann donn. Táim féin tar éis dreapadh
sa chiúnas arís, thar fhuaim na dtonnta.
Is fada nár chualathas clog nó guí
sa bhallóg seo, béal gan carball;
agus an creideamh, ar nós teangan
nach labhraítear fós, le fada an lá - balbh.

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All day a louring sky has squatted
low on the slate horizon.
Under sullen light, the sea
is beaten metal, tarnished, unannealed,
sending slow scallops landward.
The brae is in winter livery:
bare furze, tree-fern, bracken.
I’ve climbed to this silence again.
Centuries of waves have broken
since Bray last heard a bell here
inside this ruin, mute as a cleft palate
from which faith, a language no longer spoken,
has long since flown.