Northern Ireland

[Johntee]

Wind, wind and grey sky,
a graveyard latitude
where hurricanes
come to die,
a shy for the
Roaring Forties,
where big bellied sails
once ruled the world and
horn-handed sailors plied
their trade, wind-piled waves
set to their task, a hard grind,
to spill and split the land,
take and make of years
and eons, sand and
still the wind will
go roaring on.