The tumulus—I thought it was a hill at first
(trees grow out of one in Sulm)—
It was a clear day, bright, the grass
bounded by its hedgerows
too green all around and down,
the fields’ squares troubled
only by the Boyne
that just about makes an island of this place
Sunbeams don’t snake,
at least not visibly,
though 5,000 years have worked at the Earth’s
the light goes in, into the mound
through holes one to a side that tunnel
towards each other
but don’t meet,
the sun arriving on time every year
unless it’s cloudy.
But to do what?
Wake the corpse.