The tumulus—I thought it was a hill at first (trees grow out of one in Sulm)—

entered into.

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

snaking through. Sunbeams don’t snake,

at least not visibly, 

though 5,000 years have worked at the Earth’s orbit. Still 

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.