Achill 2013

I trudged to the top of the hill
Through the bog puddles and sodden heather death beds
Of a furrowed field still ashamed by its famine failure,
And stood on the rock where, sometimes,
When the mist or the rain or the wind is right, 
There is 3G.

I select Airplane Mode. 
Then unselect it 
And look on helplessly as it searches.
3 bars of basic.
Then suddenly none.
Then four bars of E,
Whatever E means.
Then none.
Then it appears.
And I feel like Fleming 
Peering down into his petri dish.
One bar of 3G. 

My thumb moves down the screen 
And the spinning sun decides that the time is right to shine. 

Checking for mail. 
Pause.
Downloading 1 of 1.

1 is the loneliest number.
But 1 is also the start
Of something else.
Some thing I don’t know
But is the reason why I plod up here
With my machine and my thumb and my hope.

The line moves across.
Updated.

THE SECRET IS HD BROWS

I turn to walk back down
Thinking of dry socks
And warm soup.