Glendalough Sonnet
In Glendalough’s monastic town,
a jackdaw baby thrusts his downy head
out of a round tower putlock and raises
an ungodly yellow beak. He squawks
at gawking tourists snapping cellphones,
the spines of their umbrellas dripping
on the ancient bullaun stones
where monks once mixed their potions
and the holywell was rich in lithium,
which turned out to be a remedy
for the occasional pilgrim who suffered,
as I do, from the watery weather
or a sodden slough of Celtic despond.