The Canopy

Somewhere in Co.Mayo

about half a mile from Sligo

near those ancient trees

that sing with mystery

the canopy of a petrol station stands alone

its legs, once pearl white
like the teeth of some god, are rusted

but the roof is still midnight blue

it juts, triumphant, out of the harsh, unforgiving land.

now there are no footprints

in the dirt

no human voices

no signs telling the petrol’s worth.

long gone are the pumps

and the hands that worked them.

there is no hint left behind

in the rocky ground

that once a cabin stood there

and money exchanged hands.

underneath

the pipes have long run dry

and above

the only glimpse of sky

is a blue cloud

among the silver.

an inverted sky hanging over

the sharp bushes

and beyond them

earth’s tables,

the brown dirt mountains

and the canopy

eerie-elegant against the Western sky

a sculpture

by an unknown tribe

an alien thing

sheltering the rock pile

and rubbish

left behind.