Donegal

I do not have the words for them-
these trees-
full grown they are, so trees,
solid yet spindly,
scrappy in the path of a wind
that carries the salt
from a passionate sea.
Six in a row, planted with purpose,
with flair and with daring
on this knuckle of land
on the hand of Glencolumbkille.
And they grew and held,
sturdy in their precariousness,
gracing the sparseness.
Was it compliance or survival
that habituated into curve:
six trees arching housewards,
leaf greeting stone?
I will ask the name of the trees
If ever I pass by that place again.