Six men born on this island
have come back after twenty-one years.
They climb up the overgrown roads
to their family houses
and come out shaking their heads.
The roofs have fallen in,
birds have nested in the rafters.
All the whitewashed rooms
all the nagging and praying
and scolding and giggling
and crying and gossiping
are scattered in the memories of these men.
One says, ‘Ten of us, blown to the winds –
some in England, some in America, some in Dublin.
Our whole way of life – extinct.’
He blinks back the tears
and looks across the island
past the ruined houses, the cliffs
and out to the horizon.
Listen, mister, most of us cry sooner or later
over a Great Blasket Island of our own.