A sheepman in the Mournes observed it first
Gorging on the entrails of a still-born
Lamb; next it was disturbed plucking the heart
From an aborted human foetus unborn

For better things elsewhere and on the third
Day poachers stoned it from the corpse of an
Informer they found gagged with a dragon's turd
And testicles. But it grew weary on

Such rich fare, scavenging the abattoirs
Of hate until, enormous, gross, and fat
With the viscera of the dove and rat,

Sated yet home-sick for the heat and flies,
It bore South again, smelling a sweeter war,
Where God died long ago of tribal lies.

Page 31, Poetry Ireland Review Issue 3